Ducktales: Twenty Years Later
by Anonymous No. 9643053
Summary: 1970. In the wake of Scrooge McDuck's death and the redistribution of his wealth among his three heirs, Huey, Dewey, and Louie, estrangement and feuding have torn the three apart. Now, they must come back together to defend their beloved uncle's legacy.
1. Prologue and Episode 1

Archiving a story I serialized on the Webernet:

funditanon(dot)blogspot(dot)com

For in-depth author notes, go there.

Have fun!

---

Prologue:

1967.

A legend died today. In the early hours of May 28th, 1967, an old man, beaten, bloodied, and malnourished, found his way back to the front door of his mansion, cradling in his arms a dead goose and several eggs made of pure gold hinting at an adventure that may never be told. Soon after, Scrooge McDuck, age 100, expired from his wounds. He is survived by his nephew, Donald Duck, and his three grandnephews, Huey, Dewey, and Louie, who will all receive a share of his vast fortune. As per his request, his body will be cremated and his ashes scattered around his home town of Glasgow. He will be missed.

***

Behold the glory of 1920s island living. From its colonization in 1905 to midway through the great depression, the name Cape Suzette was synonymous for adventure, wild abandon, danger, and a given amount of excitement. Captains of the air flew back and forth between the outside world and this oasis in the middle of the Indian Ocean, delivering cargos large and small, fighting off pirates and looters. The island was equal parts civilization and fortress, lived in and beloved by the cream of society's crop, protected on all sides by natural high stone walls dotted with anti-aircraft guns installed when it was a trade outpost during World War One.

Lax law enforcement and a social whirligig brought many to this paradise, but the same lax police and excitement would soon be its downfall. During the depression, as bank accounts dried up, all of that excitement turned inward, expressed in rampant, violent crime and infighting. Many riots broke out when the few native islanders left, not content anymore with passing out fake leis and kitsch to tourists, decided to take back their island. This ultimate act of political defiance caused the Island's economy to finally collapse, sending many packing back home for good. From the depression on, the only people living in the art deco ghost town were the islanders calling this place their home come hell or high water, and the pilots and transients with no place else to go.

Another violent upbraid occurred in 1939 all the way through to 45, when Japan attempted to sweep across Asia to meet its allies in Europe, Germany tried a sweep through Europe and Africa, and a another great war had begun. The Island and the remaining manpower were annexed by China, thrusting the island into the role of trade outpost once again, close enough to all of the fronts to be useful. Bombing runs by Japanese fighters decimated the still beautiful architecture, and the Island's population did their best to man the now horribly outdated cliff guns to hold them back. Pirates of the air were a thing of the past. The new aggressors didn't want their gold or their cargo. They wanted their lives.

That, too, passed. With a new Chinese contingent living on the Island, it wasn't long before the Island was back into the swing of civilization again. While never again attaining the glory of its heyday, it was used and renovated. Trade, money, and people came flocking back to taste Island life once again. Chinese mixed with Islanders mixed with Americans and British mixed with Africans mixed with Indians mixed with every other creed and color under the sun, creating a soup of languages and cultures blending together in peaceful yet uneasy tranquility.

Essentially cut off from the rest of the world after the apocalyptic war, the rising stone and steel towers and overlapping squares and arches of the art deco buildings stands high above, cracked and worn by the years of misuse and disuse. Everyone living there is considered a citizen of the Cape, and outsiders are always Tourist, until one would stay long enough to be an old-timer, and thus Citizen yourself.

Time stood still from the turbulent fifties to the exuberant sixties. Finally deemed useless as a trade post due to its natural walls no longer being enough to keep out enemies, the people on the island lived a sort of a dream. Immune to politics, unconcerned with ideology, forgotten by the world's superpowers, this little US-owned, China-operated speck of land in the Indian Ocean floated along in a haze, with only the occasional smuggle or odd export to break up the monotony.

In 1969, a young duck wearing brown leather flying jacket and goggles, piloting an old-fashioned bi-plane, crash-landed in the lagoon connected to the Ocean by the thin cliff-passage. In the next moment, the duck, nothing hurt but his pride, swam to shore and shook the salty water off of his feathers. He then looked around, breathed deep of the potent sea air and, in good time, Huey Duck became a citizen of the Cape.

***

Away, across the sea, over Africa's deserts and savannahs, towards the states, into the states, past the illustrious city of Duckburg, a few hundred miles away, there stands its twin city. Gothic high-rises stand, belying a design ethic with a taste for gargoyles and spiky tresses. Saint Canard, the darkness to Duckburg's light. It stands as a monument to mobs and petty crime, to sirens and the sleazy runoff of the excesses of the 60s.

As a city, Saint Canard always had the seed of darkness about it. From the prohibition on it was forever the organized crime capitol of the USA, and very little changed that. As the times changed, so did the crimes change. With gin legal, the bosses moved on to the other vices, monopolizing the illegal substances people used, searching for happiness and an escape from the day to day drudgery. However, after the end of the Second World War, something remarkable happened.

As if reflecting back the darkness, a shadow, a mere slip of a figure, began to prowl the streets preying on crime. His cape of deep purple concealed in a smoke bomb, he would attempt to bring everyone to justice, from the lowest dealer to the highest kingpin. Nobody saw his face clearly. Some said he was a monster. Some swore he was a ghost. All, however, knew the name, the motto, the terror that flaps in the night. All who hid from the law in the shadows had to answer to Darkwing Duck.

He wasn't the only one, either, several of these "Masked heroes" emerged to do battle with the criminal element, some ordinary citizens, and some truly exceptional creatures. However, as good and evil will always wage war, so too will there be a balance between them. As the masks rose for one side, so did they for the other. Normal barons and bosses gave way to super-powered kingpins and muscle. The two contingents warred away for the lives and safety of the people caught in-between.

Halfway through the 60s, Darkwing Duck, the symbol of the fight against injustice, died, killed while disrupting an international crime ring. One week later, he rose from the dead to strike back at those that wronged him, seemingly reinvigorated by his own demise. He fights on to this very day, inspiring countless others to take up arms against cruelty and evil, and give the power of good a fighting chance.

One young duck, chased out of Duckburg by a feud with his brother, found his calling one night after almost being robbed of everything he owned in the world, a green plaid jacket, a matching tie, and a carpet bag full of money and bank slips. He was chased down a dark alley by two goons bearing dented iron implements, and cornered in a dead end. The Duck turned, reaching around himself for something to use as a makeshift weapon when suddenly, Biff! Pam! Bow! Both goons were thrown to the ground, the air and sense knocked from them. The duck below looked up and saw the duck above, framed and obscured by a single lamp in the street. A wide brimmed hat adorned his head and a cape flapped in the meager city breeze.

Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone.

Louie Duck took a moment to awe at the scene, as if watching it from outside of his own body. His slight frame began to fill up with a feeling. He couldn't identify it at the time. It was only later, when he had assembled the gadgets, ordered the costume, found an acceptable base of operations, and began his own masked career that he was able to give a name to the percolation that had taken place in that lonely alley.

"_Me too_."

***

From the Dark streets of Saint Canard, let us now venture elsewhere, towards the brighter, smaller, and relatively friendlier streets of Duckburg. A company town if there ever was one, the entirety of Duckburg in some way worked for the mega conglomerate known as McDuck Enterprises. The man's face and name could be seen everywhere. Statues, plaques, dedications, Scrooge McDuck and all of the Duck family before him had left their indelible stamp on Duckburg.

Everyone was familiar with the life story. Born in 1867 in Glasgow, Scotland, where he earned his first dime shining shoes in the street. He left, staying only long enough for his trademark accent to become permanent. Every schoolchild can tell you the precise order of events leading up to his settling in Duckburg and forming the company from the various mines and fortunes he had won and lost over the years, from the African wilderness to the frozen Yukon. The strange manners and misadventures of the robust capitalist delighted and infuriated the nation, and the titanic square monster in the center of town filled to the brim with the money he had earned with his own two hands was a curio and a landmark unto itself.

His death was the event of the year. Mourners and revelers alike the world over showed up at the private service, trying to get a glimpse at the old man's ashes before they would be flown off to Scotland, never to be seen again.

His final act of quirkiness was to leave his entire fortune, conglomerate and all, to his three young nephews, Huey, Dewey, and Louie. While Huey and Louie very quickly took their third of the fortune and skipped town for greener pastures, one of the three brothers remained.

In McDuck manor, Dewey Duck sits in -_his-_ chair in -_his-_ study, staring into -_his-_ fireplace. The multi-zillionaire, full executor of one third of the McDuck fortune, and now acting CEO of McDuck Enterprises, can't help but feel a cloying emptiness in everything he does.

He sleeps every night and wakes every morning. For breakfast he has a single piece of toast. He begins the day's journey, wearing thin the already well-worn path between the mansion, the money bin, and the graveyard.

Every day he stands at the top of the bin, once filled to the brim with the spoils of his uncle's adventures, many of them spent with the boys themselves. It now stands empty; its fortunes deposited in three huge bank accounts for the boy's private use. Dewey can't help but long for the feeling of swimming, as his uncle had the unique ability to do, through the glittering coins, letting them wash over his body, before surfacing and throwing quarters and pennies everywhere. He longed to open his mouth and let the metallic taste wash over his tongue, spitting out the coins like a whale releasing a waterspout. More than once he had considered filling the empty monument with his own sizable spoils of his Uncle's enterprise, but he could never bring himself to it. It was not his money. He has no right to use the sweat, blood, and tears of his Uncle to fulfill his own petty whims.

Standing up on the high-dive board his Uncle had installed to facilitate his habit, Dewey, wearing his tasteful powder blue business suit, has more than once contemplated jumping into the empty bin, to meet the straggling pennies at the bottom that nobody has claimed. Every time, however, he backs away.

Business calls.

---

Episode One: The Three Brothers

"Hands off the controls, little breeches," A crackling voice snapped out with the force of crotchety old men with defiled lawns everywhere, "I'm driving."

With goggles already around his eyes and leather jacket done up, Huey Duck froze over the controls of the cargo plane. His eye twitched, a temper older than he could ever know locked up deep inside yearned to be unleashed, but he kept himself under control.

"Alright, alright. I was just horsing around."

The old man, a bear, with hints of grey poking through his coarse brown coat, sat down at the controls like a man sidling up to a wife of eighty years. Huey raised up his goggled to watch the peculiar ritual the old man had when starting up the banana-colored antique. The coos and sweet whispers as switches and instruments were pulled and activated.

The Sea Duck was old. That was Huey's first impression on that first day he arrived on the doorstep of "Higher-for-hire" looking for a legendary pilot that had been recommended to him by McDuck's old private pilot Launchpad McQuack. It was well-kept, and obviously still ran, but the plane itself, a sun-yellow pontoon-footed heap of a seaplane, was a relic.

Huey thought back to that first day as he listened to the propellers spin to life, the left one a little slower and stickier than the right.

"I'm Huey, Nice to meet you! You must be Baloo Bear. Launchpad sent me he..."

"Baloo's dead," The old man had said, before slamming the door closed.

"Wak!" cried Huey as the thin wood of the door smacked into his beak.

His white feathered hand rose up to rub at the tip of his beak. The first week or so in the Cape was rough. Every day he would come back to Higher-for-hire, trying to find out what had happened to Baloo, and what he could do now that he was dead, only to have a new bruise appear on his beak where he got too close to the closing door. Launchpad's absentminded approach to life had gotten Huey into one hell of a pickle there for a while. Asking around on the street he learned that Baloo had been dead for years, and if he was alive today he would be roughly 80 years old. Launchpad, that fucker, had let that little detail slip his mind when he recommended a new flying teacher that wouldn't have the habit of turning every other lesson into a crash course.

"You okay Huey?" his new teacher asked, "You look miles away."

Huey woke up out of the fog of the past with a start and started to check the instruments as if he had been wide awake the whole time.

"I'm fine Mr. Cloudkicker. Just fine." He then changed the subject. "Where we headed anyway?"

"Just a little errand for the King family. Melons, I think."

The Sea Duck floated along the lagoon, picking up speed for a takeoff.

"No cocaine-filled condoms stuffed inside them this time I hope."

Old man Cloudkicker shot Huey a look. "I keep telling you, kid, that was a misunderstanding. Louie's family doesn't do that. That was a misunderstanding."

"Yeah, one you had to talk yourself out of to customs."

"Huey, I've known Louie King and his family longer than you ever will. I know Louie. He wouldn't..."

"Maybe not in your day. He wouldn't need to," Huey crossed his arms, "But the Cape's been through a lot since then, hasn't it?"

"Kid, I agreed to teach you to fly in Papa... in Baloo's place as a favor to one of his friends. If you insist on insulting his and my most trusted friend we can call this off right now."

As the engine of the sea plane cranked its gears and turned its propellers the two men stared each other down. After a full minute, Kit Cloudkicker's stare, weighed down by years of grumpy old man mojo, won out. Huey looked away and down, closing his eyes in defeat. To break the ice, the old man gave a big booming laugh. Huey sank down in the co-pilot seat and smiled at the familiar signal. _Argument over, you're off the hook._

"Cheer up, Little Breeches. I forgive you," Kit said, before giving one last adjustment to his instruments, "Now let's soar."

The buzzing engines propelled the sea plane on over the salty lake towards the twin cliff walls that once upon a time served as the island's only defense against invaders. Lifting up and down in the water, the pontoons bounced on the surface of the lake, before staying in the air for good just in time to fly between the cliffs, plunging the cabin into darkness.

Hitting the throttle, Old man Cloudkicker, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, handled the control wheel with a steady hand borne of years of practice. Huey couldn't help by stare at the wrinkled, grey-furred fingers wrapped around the wheel, lit only by the single bare pilot light above the co-pilot's seat. Staring suddenly forward, towards the long, thin opening of the cliff, Huey felt a bit of the old feeling, that adrenalized feeling when a journey begins, when one isn't sure if it will be just a normal trip, or if those familiar, dreaded wacky hijinx are about to ensue. Huey's chest puffed out as the cabin was plunged into natural light, the sparkling blue ocean stretching out in every direction. He let his eyes refocus for a moment, before scanning the ocean, longing to take the Sea Duck, this beautiful, ancient relic of a more interesting age, and search the world over for treasure, excitement.

As the plane began to lose altitude, he let his eyes focus on the small island approaching his vision and sighed. If his Uncle had taught him anything, it's that business comes first.

***

On the other side of the world, the whirls of red and blue lit up the streets. Two men, holding sacks full of green, rocketed down an alley, legs pumping as fast as they could. One gave a mighty leap, grabbing onto a lowered fire escape ladder. His companion, strangely, merely reached out with a hand, letting a strange tendril shoot out, wrapping around the fire escape itself and pulling its owner up. Once secure, the two men hoisted their bags and climbed.

As the men crawled their ways onto the rooftops, they could hear the sirens riding off, down the street, around the corner and off on a wild goose chase. The light of the full moon illuminated the two men, as well as casting deep shadows, giving both a deathly pallor. One, a duck in a tweedy suit with patches on the elbows, reached behind himself to help up his companion, who wore a flat cap which obscured his face and species. As the men's hands came in contact, the fingers of the second man seemed to wrap around the arm of the first several times. Both up on their feet, they began to look around the roof for a good jumping point.

Suddenly, Flash! A sudden flare lit up the scene, blinding one, and causing the other to barely flinch. As their eyes adjusted to the light, they suddenly saw a glimpse of Green. The tweedy duck suddenly felt a pressure on his ankles, and looked down to see too late the thin, strong cords wrapping themselves around his legs. With a pull, he was swept off his feet and hung upside down from a nearby water tower, impacting with the metal scaffolding holding it up. The sack filled with green dropped to the ground, its valuable innards spilling and fluttering out over the rooftop.

The Duck howled in pain as he held his head. He was then quieted by a hand holding his beak closed.

"Stealing. Petty. I thought the criminals in this town were better than that."

From the tweedy duck's point of view, the new duck, in a green face mask obscuring everything but the eyes and beak, seemed to hang upside down from the ground, which was, of course the opposite of what it really was.

"You... You masked nuisance! You'll be sorry! You've stumbled way out of your league, boy. Who are you?"

A rather practiced pose was issued, as if dozens of hours in front of a mirror had paid off, "They call me the Green Phantom, evil-doer."

"Never heard of you. Spike!"

"Ha. I took care of your collaborator while you were... hung up. I'd say I've got this well in hand."

The green-clad duck stepped aside to reveal the accomplice splayed out on the ground, his hat dented by a heavy impact.

"Spike! My only companion! You'll be sorry! You'll all be sorry."

"Tell it to the judge," said the Green Phantom, "If you'll excuse me I'll get these leaves back to where they belo..." A legendary double take. "Leaves?"

With a disbelieving look, the eyes of the green masked drew wide as the hero looked into the bag. It wasn't full of crisp green bills like he thought, but instead filled with crisp green lettuce.

"I was finally going to build my dream woman! I've used every available form of plant protein, but Lettuce! It's such a simple cytoplasm, it can't possibly go wrong!"

With a horrible feeling sneaking its way up the Phantom's stomach to rest in his throat, the crime fighter retrieved a small flashlight from his utility belt. He drew the thin beam of light up and down the recently bagged criminal. Purple, shaggy flower petals served as hair, with a thin layer of yellow pollen on the small stems inside. Feathers, an acid green. Fingers, leafy and thin. The Green Phantom, the newest kid on the block, had picked a fight with an A-lister.

"Bushroot?"

"What? You want an award?"

The Green Phantom swallowed. He had followed the hero dramas of the Fifties and Sixties as well as anyone. Bushroot, victim of a horrible experiment at his greenhouse lab, seeks revenge against those that wronged him and all plant kind. One of the perennial villains of Darkwing Duck. If this is Bushroot, then that means...

The green duck placed his leafy fingers in his beak and gave a piercing whistle. "Spike! Chow-time!"

"Oh," said the Green Phantom as he looked towards the fallen accomplice. There was only a small heap of empty clothes next to a bag full of the green leaves.

Hearing a slight rustle, as if something moved a bush, the Green Phantom leaped out of the way just before a long, spiked tendril cracked the rooftop with a whip-crack. The Phantom stood quickly, reaching for his tool belt and pulling out a small hand-held tazer.

What met his gaze was a huge, carnivorous plant. The twin bowls of the head were spread wide, big enough for a young buck to fit inside. The thick stem was long and veined, which pulsed with some unknowable lifeblood. The thick tentacles, too many to count, were constantly in motion, their dance creating the light rustling sound heard earlier.

The plant named Spike had cut down its beloved master, and deposited him on a smooth, dripping tendril that had just burst from the monster's large stem. Once freed, and having no use for his disguise, Bushroot whipped off the tweed jacket and shirt, tossing them casually aside.

"It will do my Spike good to give him a snack," said the mad Bushroot, "Green heroes always taste the best."

The Green Phantom didn't even have time to roll his eyes at the terrible three-fold pun made at his expense before the tendrils bore down on him, forcing him into his first fight for his life.

***

A creaking door signaled her entrance. The squeaky wheels of the tea trolley traced her path through the darkened study. The clink of the ceramic tea set gave away her arrival by his side.

The single, tall window cast an even taller shaft of illumination over the scene. Blue moonlight spread over everything in the room. In the center, facing away from the window- from the light- Dewey Duck sat in a plush chair.

"Tea, Dewey?" said the woman, thin and fretful, in the sensible outfit of a housekeeper.

"No thank you Ms. Vanderquack."

A sudden silence permeated the room. The familiar clinks of teacups were suddenly halted.

"You may call me Webigail if you like, Dewey. Or Webby. We've known each other long enough that..."

"No."

And with that the conversation was over. Webigail Vanderquack, her eyes cast downwards, began to squeak back towards the creaky door.

She was stopped by a sudden voice, "Did Kagan send word?"

Without answering, Webigail left the tea trolley behind and walked back towards the easy chair. She pulled a sealed telegram out of a pocket in her apron and handed it to the duck. She then walked off silently, taking the trolley back up, opening the creaking door, and stepping out into the hall.

***

"Come in! Come in!" An island boy, an Ape wearing a lout Hawaiian shirt and a fake lei, the usual costume for this establishment, waved his ample arms to the two pilots, "Grandfather is waiting for you."

Kit walked out in front, with a bit of a limp. Old war injury, he would say. Huey couldn't help but match his pace as he walked behind the large old bear, subtly introducing a limp into his own gait. Huey wasn't paying attention to what Kit and the young boy talked about. In all the times Huey had come along to Louie's, the little flock of children, who always seemed to multiply every time, always had some bit of news to tell. Sam's teeth came in. Alice is dating someone or other who Grandfather approves of. Vincent is dating someone or other her doesn't.

Louie, or "King" Louie due to his impressive progeny, is the patriarch of one of the larger families on or near the Cape. A businessman at heart, in the 20s and 30s Louie was able to eke out an impressive living selling drinks and food to the revolving door of pilots and tourists that visited Cape Suzette. Until about five years before, Louie had been the sole proprietor of Louie's, and kept his family out of it. However, health being what it is, he knew he would need more help eventually. He officially brought his surprisingly large family in to act as his staff, and trained them all he knew, so they could carry on once he passed on.

Of course, his children brought their children. The veritable army of tykes and kids serving beer and spirits to the few hungry travelers that take the trouble to head out to Louie's small private island either charm or repulse, depending on how dirty the kids are that day.

Huey winced at a familiar noise. A rattling, heaving sigh of a breath that preludes exuberant, if strained, speech.

"Cuz'!" Another rattle, "'sat you?"

Huey figured he had to be at least in his 90s. Pushed in on a wicker-backed wheelchair by some ubiquitous grandchild, wrinkles and spots creased the already naturally wrinkled ape face and arms. Even more than Kit, Louie's arms and open shirt revealed an almost completely silver-grey mess of fur. He was smiling a toothless, scratch that, slightly toothed ear-to-ear smile, revealing the half-chewed remnants of a betel nut, staining the remaining teeth orange.

"Hiya Louie. How's tricks?"

With the slightest of hand gestures the nameless grandchild was indicated to roll Louie Closer. The long, grey arms, shaking from the effort, rose to meet Kit in a hug.

"Baloo," said Louie, "I'm glad you'll do this favor for me..." Another rattling breath, "Before I..."

"Yes, Louie," said Kit, humoring the old man, "What's the job?"

"And who's this? Another kid following you around, Baloo?"

Huey rose his arm in a wave, "Hi Louie."

"Hopefully you keep this one out of..." A breath, "...the war, hear? Haven't seen our Kit since..." a breath, "...since the good old days."

Huey gave a sideways glance to Kit. Louie's eyes had gone, along with his legs, his hearing, and his most everything. Huey had never known Louie before he was struck with the trappings of old age, but to hear Kit tell it, he used to be as robust and lively as anyone.

Suddenly, the accented voice spoke in a low timber, "So now, It's all inna back. Twenty crates of melons, ripe and juicy, Delivered to this here..." He casually stuck a rolled up slip of paper into Kit's hands while taking another shaky breath. "...This here dock on the mainland."

Kit nodded slowly, so Louie could see. There was nothing but care in his face as he patted the old man on the shoulder gently. "Don't worry, Louie. We old-timers have to stick together."

A wracking, breathless laugh wracked the Orangutan's chest as he slapped his useless knee, "Old-timer he says. You only 16 years old Kit. You crazy kid you."

Huey broke off as the conversation between old and older splintered off into talking about thing that happened and people that went away thirty years ago. He sat at the bar, tended to by Louie's eldest grandson, Orin. He wore the usual Hawaiian shirt of the establishment, but went without the Lei, and the wide-brimmed straw hat went unworn on a hook near the back.

"What'll you have, Mr. Duck," Said Orin in an obviously exaggerated accent.

"Save the cheese for the vacationers, Orin, I want a drink."

"Usual?"

"O'course."

Orin got busy, in the practiced, steady motion of fixing up a bowl of Louie's specialty, the "special" ice cream concoctions that get you drunk without you even realizing it. Soon, a strawberry milkshake was sitting in front of Huey, sweating in the humid equatorial heat.

"How's business?" asked Huey, making conversation as the glass slid his way.

"Not nearly as good as it could be. Grandfather, bless him, won't listen when I say we should change some things around here." Orin then went to exhibit that neutral action of bartenders everywhere, cleaning an already clean glass. "We should move inland to the island proper, nobody wants to take a plane ride just to have a drink anymore. There's no profit in maintaining this dump."

"Then why stick around?" asked Huey, "Find greener pastures."

Orin looked horrified. "And leave my family behind? No. No, of course not. This is my home. Even if all of the fathers and mothers side with Grandfather, it's no reason to leave. I just wish I had... some control over matters."

Huey let the conversation trail off from there. Kit walked up soon after.

"Get ready for an ice cream headache kid. We're leaving."

In his haste to get back in the air, Huey took one last deep drag on his Strawberry milkshake, The combination of Alcohol and ice cream going straight to his head and bringing on a massive brain freeze.

"Urh!" grunted Huey, holding his head and running out to meet the old man on the docks.

***

"WAK!"

With a jerk, an automatic pulley-system attached to a grappling gun, designed to lift up to 2000 pounds of weight without a strain, wrenched out of the Green Phantom's unprepared grip and was never seen again in the alley below.

"Worst three thousand dollars I ever spent," sighed the masked man as he turned to face his doom.

The gigantic fly trap, growing ever larger by the minute, bore down on the green-clad hero. The roof where it stood seemed to crack and strain under the weight of the giant plant.

"Oooh ohhh! I always love it when the good guys don't know how to use their own gadgets!" squealed Bushroot, still sitting on a smooth vine below the plant's snapping jaws, "Any last words, Green Fathead?"

"Well I..."

"And no giving your last words as 'Geronimo' and jumping off the roof to land in an open dumpster or something. I HATE that."

Green Phantom gave a quick look to the alley below. No, there were no convenient dumpsters or garbage cans to fall into, and no extra grapple gun to enact an emergency escape with.

He gave a weak shrug and a weaker smile, "Er... I... You'll never get away with it?"

"Poor choice, new guy. Stale line. Was outdated even before I started, and I've been in this game for a long time. Spike?"

A long, spiked vine rose up, ready to crush the duck. Louie gulped, bracing himself for impact.

Poof! Suddenly, with a small explosion, the rooftop was filled with smoke. Poof! Another explosion, inside Spike's gaping maw, causing the creature to give an unearthly screech and backpedal with its tendrils.

"I am the terror that flaps in the night."

Louie's heart skipped a beat. He's here!

"Oh, hell no!" yelled the leafy villain.

The voice, a strangely high-pitched voice for an adult male crime fighter, continued, "I am the chainsaw that chops down your tree!"

"I swear, Darkwing. Every since you came back your little metaphors have gotten very violent," said Bushroot with a pout as he waved his arms in the air to disperse the smoke.

"I am..." Atop the water tower, there he stands. Violet cape held taut behind him, wide-brimmed hat throwing a shade over his face. "...Darkwing Duck!"

"Golly!" yelled the Green Phantom, before covering his mouth, knowing that superheroes shouldn't be too impressed with each other.

"Are you all right, Greenie?"

"What? Oh. Yeah. Just fine."

"Good."

The masked mallard himself then pulled a delicately crafted bow from behind his back, knocking an arrow in the blink of an eye and aiming for the giant flytrap.

"Suck gas, Evildoer!"

He then let fly. The arrow, with a bulbous ball on the end, burst as it came in contact with the plant. Almost immediately, Louie could detect a harsh chemical smell entering his nostrils. He pulled a small gasmask out of his utility belt, grateful that something would come in handy. With the plant's unholy screams resonating across three city blocks, setting off car alarms and causing people to yell profanity out their windows for a mile around, Louie began to feel his way off the roof, through the gas. A small white feathered hand reached up through the thick soup of the fog, preceding the purple-clad vigilante.

"Uh! Oh! How'd you get down here so fast?" said Louie, startled.

"Practice. You coming or not?"

Without a word, Louie took his hand. Darkwing then jerked the hand away, and grabbed the green-clad duck roughly by the waist, jumping off the roof into clear air.

Louie gave a yell as his face was dangled downwards, the city streets racing towards him. The vision then roughly stopped, and his vision was momentarily blurred by all of the blood racing to his head at once. He chanced a look up and noticed that his savior was holding onto a strong cord, much like the one he was using in the grappling gun. While still carrying the Green Phantom, DW stepped onto the pavement delicately, before dumping Louie unceremoniously on the ground.

Louie stood, wobbling. He shook his head to regain his focus and noticed, for the first time, that Darkwing Duck was shorter than he was, wore his hair in a ponytail, and wasn't a duck at all. More of a goose. A thought suddenly struck Louie.

"Shouldn't we run? He could still come after us."

"That's weed killer up there, new guy. He's not going to be moving for a while yet."

"B-but when he does."

Darkwing rolled his eyes, green eyes Louie couldn't help but notice, and looked down at a watch, "You remember how the roof was cracking?"

"Y-yeah?"

"Good, you're observant. You might have hope in this business yet."

He raised three fingers up. She lowered his ring finger. He lowered his middle finger. He lowered his pointer finger. He then put both pointers in his ears.

"Boom." Said the rooftop above, as the bomb DW set above went off.

Louie covered his head with his arms as a few bits of debris fell about. "You blew him up?"

"He'll grow back. He always does. It's how he stays so young." Darkwing began to walk back up the alley, towards the fire escape, intending to check out the damage. Louie couldn't help, no, Louie refused to help but notice the way Darkwing carry himself, with an easy grace, full of hips and without the usual swagger associated with the male sex. In a moment of gay panic, Louie looked away pointedly. After that, however, it wasn't long before he finally put together the pieces.

"You're a woman."

"Good one. Think that up all by yourself?"

"Well... Isn't Darkwing Duck supposed to be a man?"

"I was, for a long time. I got tired of it." She then hopped onto a trashcan, leaping off of it to grab the low-hanging fire escape ladder.

"Oh no you don't," yelled Louie, jumping up to grab onto the bottom run of the ladder, and pulling himself up, "Darkwing really DID die in that hit, didn't he? You're his replacement."

"I neither confirm, nor deny."

The two of them continued to climb up the fire escape calmly, each one every so often climbing up the sides of the scaffold to get in front of the other. Green Phantom plopped himself in front of Darkwing and stuck her on the end of an accusatory pointer finger.

"And the arrows? Darkwing Duck used a gas gun."

"You're welcome."

"What?"

"I saved your feathers. You should be thanking me, not trying to deduce my life's story."

"Oh. Sorry."

Pushing Louie out of the way, Darkwing started back up again. The Duck continued to follow. The two heroes crawled their way up to the destroyed roof, and stood up on the edge, surveying the collapsed rooftop covered with dark green sludge.

"That'll take about half a year to come back from," said DW, "What was he after anyway?"

"Lettuce."

"Ah. Of course. A simple cytoplasm, perfect for his purposes. That could have been messy."

"This isn't messy?"

"Kid, you don't know messy until you've fought in a sewer. Believe me. Not all it's cracked up to be."

"You can't be that much older than me." A quick once over. "In fact I'd say you're a little younger. Why am I the kid?"

"Because, Greenie, you just started. I've been at this for years."

"You know, I've been having adventures like this since I was a kid. I just never wore a mask until now."

"Good for you, Frank Hardy. Where's Joe?"

"Really. I knew Gizmoduck in his Duckburg days for crying out loud. I'm the one who should be calling you squirt, or pintsize, or..."

"Louie?"

"Yeah, or Louie, or... WAK!" A sudden start. The Green-clad duck flinched away from the masked mallard as if she was on fired, "B-but... How?"

"Isn't it obvious?" DW began to say, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. She turned with a flourish and sat down on the edge of the building, letting the moonlight wash over her. "You say you knew Gizmoduck. During his Duckburg days, Gizmoduck was the robo-bodyguard of one Mr. Scrooge McDuck. Scrooge McDuck has died, leaving his fortune to his three nephews. One of them, says the Duckburg Herald, has moved to Saint Canard to start a new life, purportedly after a heated battle with his brother. Well, since Huey Duck moved abroad to dodge the draft, and Dewey appears to be living in Duckburg managing Scroogie's finances, that just leaves you, Louie Duck, as the Green Phantom." She looked up at Louie with a smile, "Am I right?"

A moment of stunned silence bubbled in the air around them, before Louie regained his composure and sat himself down next to her. "I neither confirm, nor deny."

"I learned from the best, kid," DW said, putting extra emphasis on the 'kid.' She then stood up and knocked a quick arrow into her lithe bow. The arrow flew out over the rooftops, creating a rope, useful for swinging.

"Er, wait, Darkwing."

"Yeah, Greenie?"

"Can I, er, see you again?" Louie tried to give his most dashing smile to the Violet-clad woman, but merely succeeded in looking a little demented.

"You did not just say that," said DW simply, before she jumped from the roof and swung away.

The Green Phantom, hoping to catch up, reached for his grapple-gun, remembering too late its ultimate fate.

Unknown to either hero, however, a third shadow flits across the night. Watching. Waiting.

***

"I don't like it."

"Huey..."

"What? A guy's allowed to have an opinion. We already got shafted once by a shipment of Louie's, who's to say this one's not the same?"

"It's not, because I trust Louie, Kid. Same way I trust my own right arm to fly this plane."

Pilot and co-pilot sat, not looking at each other, but still engaged in a deep argument about the suspicions surrounding the Cargo.

"I say it wouldn't hurt to check," said Huey, "One melon. We open it up. If it's clean we have a laugh and a snack. If it's dirty we dump it all in the ocean and..."

"Huey. I'm not warning you again."

Huey leaned back, arms crossed behind his head in a posture of relaxation, but face contorted with the early onset symptoms of rage, "Fine. Just fine. You do what you want. If we get arrested by customs don't say I didn't..."

"Shut up."

"I wasn't finished talking, Old Man."

"No. Shut up. Listen." Kit's face was suddenly alert and serious, and Huey couldn't help but strain to hear over the roaring propellers of the Sea Duck.

He couldn't quite make it out, but there was something. A beating, rhythmic sound just out of range of hearing.

"What is it?"

Suddenly, the CB radio sprang to life.

"Hello Sea Duck," The voice was thickly accented with a Spanish inflection, and had a buoyant quality, as if he had the best job in the world, "S.I.L, no? I have come to inspect your wares if you please."

Huey whispered to Kit, "Sky pirates?"

"Worse. Inspectors."

Owing to many of the amazing technological marvels in the heyday of the Sky around Cape Suzette, Sky law had gotten stricter. Piracy and smuggling had become such problems in the air that an independent organization had to be set up to counteract it. Enter the Sky Inspection League, an offshoot of the international police organization S.H.U.S.H. Using technology lifted straight from the pirates themselves, massive, advanced airships to use as a mobile base, the S.I.L was given free rein to police the skies over the oceans of the world. Due to this, sky piracy has gone down in frequency --perhaps due to something just as fun, more profitable, and a lot more legal opening up-- but simple smuggling, an act that is as timeless as the ideas of travel and contraband, stayed a common occurrence.

It entered Huey's line of vision, causing his stomach to drop through his diaphragm. A massive airship, armed to the teeth, held up by a truly astonishing amount of helicopter rotors. In between each rotor was an anti-air gun. The whole thing was colored a clashing array of blue, white, and Orange. The front seemed to resemble the face of some bird of prey, or perhaps, more appropriately, a carrion bird.

"If you would please fly into the Iron Vulture pretty please if you will."

Huey and Kit each gave a glance to the other. Kit's face betrayed a just enough doubt to make Huey feel a lilt of triumph. Triumph soon squelched by what that would mean for their asses. S.I.L isn't one of those kinder and gentler international police organizations. Kit picked up the CB and began to speak.

"Well well. If it isn't Karnage Junior. How's pops?"

"Mr. Cloudkicker. One of the thorns in the side of international sky piracy before the formation of S.I.L. I am so pleased to we meet again." The voice continued on, "If you please..."

"Can't you let us off with a pass, Junior?"

"You will call me by my proper name of Commodore Perry Kid or you may call me sir, Mr. Cloudkicker. There must be respect in the ranks if there is to be any order at all. Any insinuation that I have any familial relation with the infamous pirate Don Karnage is simply slander, yes no?"

Kit ignored this little outburst, "You know we're on the level. We've just got crates of melons from Louie's. Melon's ain't illegal, are they?"

"Even so..." the Iron Vulture's orange-colored jaws opened, revealing a massive hangar inside, "Please. Be my guest. We shall all feel better if we check."

The guns, every last one of them loaded and locked, swiveled towards the Sea Duck on cue, ready to fire at a moment's notice. With no other choice, Kit steered the yellow bird into the hangar inside, trying to have faith that there is nothing Louie's given them that would get the two of them in trouble with the S.I.L. The Iron Vulture's beak closed with a clang.

***

"Operator. I'd like to place a call to Bombay. Farid Kagan." Dewey Duck gave a look of deep thought. "Reverse the charges."

It was morning and as usual, Dewey Duck was in early. Standing in front of the desk he would always refer to as "Scrooge's", he held the phone receiver, between his chin and shoulder, rummaging through his desk for the pertinent papers for this conversation. He finally pulled out a file marked "Important," as the fourth and fifth rings gave their muffled call.

"Yes?" The voice was honey in the ear, It had the tone of a sly smile and the timbre of a single raised eyebrow. No trace of an accent was found, and Dewey always wondered how he did that. His own Hindi was terrible.

"Farid Kagan? It's Dewey Duck, McDuck Enterprises."

"Ahh, yes. I see you've gotten my telegram. I would have liked to have heard from you earlier, but alas, the time difference is such a bore."

"Any word on the find?"

"Yes, in fact." There was the rustling of papers in the background of the call, "Of the three sites you specified, the northernmost site in India has a rather rich vein of ore. You've made a very good choice of claim, Mr. Duck."

Dewey nodded. He didn't want to celebrate too early. He'd barked up too many wrong trees in trying to expand his uncle's business to celebrate this early in the game. If this turned out to be a false lead it was back to square one. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Positively, Mr. Duck. No need to worry."

"I still want to go out there, see for myself."

"Of course. I would expect no less."

After a moment, the thrill had worn off, and Dewey's racing heart had slowed. Alright. I've struck gold. Now what?

"Mr. Duck. Are you still with us?"

"What? Oh. Yes, Farid. It's just..."

"Your Uncle?"

"Y... yes. He was a just a little older than I am when he made his first million. It's a little hard to compete, you know?" Dewey shook his head, "Why am I saying this? Sorry, Farid."

"Oh, no," Farid said, his voice lilting and comforting, "It's all right. I know exactly how you feel."

"I don't suppose your uncle was a multi-bajillionaire as well."

"No, merely a normal run-of-the-mill Millionaire. He always told me that I was the only help I needed to seek the bottom line. I do always feel a pang of guilt dipping into my inheritance for personal gain," Farid gave a slight pause, "I assume that is why you limited using McDuck resources on this find, so it would be a fortune you create yourself."

"Dead to rights, Farid," Dewey allowed himself a slight smile, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. It was only a moment, however, and soon his face was back to business. "I'll be there in a week. I've got to finish up my business here before I can devote my full time to this project. In the meantime please send me some samples, as soon as..."

"Do not worry, Mr. Duck. I can take care of things for you until you get here. You'll have those samples within two days."

"Thank you Farid. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Mr. Duck."

Dewey hung up the phone. Dewey stretched his arms. Dewey leaned back in Scrooge McDuck's chair. In a moment of indulgence, Dewey picked the phone back up and called the mansion.

"McDuck manor, Mr. Duck is out right now. Shall I take a message?"

"Ms. Vanderquack?"

"Oh, Dewey. What is it, sir?"

"Er... That is," What was I going to ask her? "If... Ms. Vanderquack, if you would like. Have you ever been to India?"

"Yes Dewey. I've been to India. With your brothers and Uncle Scrooge."

"Oh. Well. Did you like it?"

"I don't remember much. I was very young."

What am I doing, Dewey thought, Why am I inviting my housekeeper along?

Sensing the tenseness of the silence, Webigail began to speak, "Shall I pack for warm weather?"

A sigh of relief rushed out of Dewey's beak, "Yes, yes. We will leave for Bombay in a week."

"Yes sir," Webigail said, a thin layer of business in her voice disguising a feeling of contentment.

"Good," said Dewey, before hanging up roughly.

The duck adjusted the collar of his shirt, loosening up the blue tie holding it tight to his neck. Moving automatically, Dewey's arm unlocked and opened up the bottom drawer of Scrooge's desk and pulled a small flask out. He twisted the cap off and took a swig, grimacing at the burn as the liquid slid past his gullet. Replacing the cap, he placed the flask back in the drawer and closed it.

His head turned, staring at the tall portrait of Scrooge McDuck that scrutinized the room with its gaze - quite literally, since the eyes were also security cameras- and nodded.

"I may never catch up, but I'll give my damndest effort, you rich bastard."

Having made his piece, he stood and walked into the money bin, closing the vault door behind him. He had some hard staring into the abyss to do. No good disrupting his schedule for something as insignificant as making his own way in the world.


	2. Episode 2

Episode 2:

To the chorus of cocking guns and released safeties, Huey and Kit stepped down onto the iron floor of the Hangar.

The insides of the Iron Vulture betrayed the sheer age of the vessel. If Huey knew his aviation, and he was sure he did, this airship or one very much like it stood in direct opposition with the Sea Duck on many occasions in the days when it was used as a pirate vessel.

All around, however, were the trappings of modern aviation. Fighter jets lined the walls, compact and shiny, covered in speed and firepower, ready to give any fleeing airplanes the fight of their lives.

Huey's hands travelled up to lift the goggles up from in front of his eyes. "Well, some welcome wagon."

"Behave, Little Breeches. Best behavior," said Kit as he walked around the nose of the yellow bird."

The crowd of S.I.L men, each dressed in a uniform more naval than air force, parted in the middle, revealing a smartly-dressed officer, a rust-colored coyote, holding a custom service revolver with flowing, flowery Art Nouveau patterns etched into the stock and barrel.

"Ah, We meet face-to-face," The Commodore began, "Kit Cloudkicker: Former known Sky Pirate; allegedly reformed and living on that useless dot out in the middle of the ocean."

"I was eleven years old for christ's sake."

"It does not matter. A dark spot on one's permanent record is just that. Permanent, you see, yes?" He then raised his revolver towards Huey, "And you I do not know. If you are smart you will keep it this way, yes?"

Huey nodded, the back of his head prickling with the desire to go check out whether or not the cargo will compromise them.

"If you will please me, please to step away from your beautiful bird, please."

Huey and Kit walked on away from the Sea Duck.

"I suppose," Kit began, "You'd like to see a sample of the cargo."

"Smart too. Alright. Lower the guns fellas." The men obediently did as they were told. Kid then pointed towards Huey, "You, what's-his-face, bring me something. An' no funny stuff. Rand?" A stocky-looking dog in a sailor-suit went rigid in a salute. Huey was sure he could hear the stiffness. "Go with him. Make sure he doesn't try nothing, yes?"

"Yessir!" Rand sounded British, not that Huey cared much.

With hands up, the Duck stepped back into the passenger-side door of the Sea Duck, followed by Rand. The two other them walked into the cargo hold, and Huey very quickly set to work. He took a crowbar off the wall and gave a little prayer that what was in there was just melons. Placing the wedge between the top of the crate and the rest of the box, Huey gave a tug. Soon, the nails gave way and the top was exposed, revealing a collection of lime green melons.

Huey took one in his hands and, using the wedge of the crowbar as a makeshift knife, made a small cut in the rind. Rand waited patiently as he did this, figuring checking inside the melons was probably a good idea. Huey very soon had enough of the rind cut away that he could lift a section out. Grabbing the juicy section in his fingers, he lifted it up.

Within, he saw the shiny surface of a balloon filled to capacity, as well as a small hole where it had been nicked by the crowbar, where it leaked thin white powder.

"Err... this one's rotten. Could I get another one?" Said Huey, hiding the hole from Rand.

Rand took a bit too long to think of an answer to this, finally coming up with, "No," when he couldn't think of anything better.

"Ah... alright." He turned, his mind racing, towards the cargo entrance of the plane, and reached for the switch to open the doors.

Suddenly, idea.

"Shouldn't you open the door, Rand? You're the one in charge here."

"Uhhhh," and a few more 'haiches' besides, "you really think I should?"

"I would," Huey insisted, his fingers rubbing over the contraband casaba.

A Spanish-inflected voice called from outside of the plane, "Are you two finished in there?"

"Better open it up. The officer is calling," said Huey.

Convinced, Rand walked up and pressed the button. The cargo bay doors positioned underneath the tail of the Sea Duck split and began to open. Soon, there was a walkable ramp created.

Rand smiled and looked back at Huey, getting a face full of cocaine and melon juice for his trouble. Startled, he yelled and toppled backwards, firing his rifle into the air harmlessly. The large, snowy body of the dog barreled into a set of soldiers holding guns, sending them packing like so many dominoes.

By the time Commodore Kid had realized what was happening, the Seaduck's ramp had closed and the engines were starting.

"Stop him! Aim for the cockpit! Shoot to kill! Shoot to kill!"

"Oh kid," said Kit under his breath, "What are you doing?"

The cracks of rifle fire mixed with the noise of the spinning propellers. Cracking glass answered, and Kit couldn't look as one S.I.L officer climbed up onto the nose and reached inside with his rifle, firing on the unseen Duck inside.

"Oh, Huey."

"Huey. Too bad. Good name for a guy, yes?" said the Commodore, "Now then, I'm sure what my private is covered in ain't sugar, buddy, yes? Kit Cloudkicker, I would like for you to come with..." A loud siren sounded off, "...me?"

All of the men standing around the scene were nearly swept off of their feet by the sudden wind that whipped up around them. A few, near the hangar doors, toppled out in surprise and fell to their deaths. As soon as their furs and feathers had finished ruffling, The Commodore was yelling at everyone around him.

"Close the hangar! What are you idiots doing?"

Kit looked onto where he knew the hangar door controls to be and saw Huey, head low, sneaking back towards the planes. Kit averted his gaze, pointing his vision towards an unrelated area around the exit.

Using his best Spanish accent, honed by years of practice making fun of the Pirate captain Don Karnage, Kit called out, "Get him you fools, he's going to the engine room. Get him get him get him!"

The disoriented S.I.L soldiers, used to following that accent, made a beeline for the exit, getting stuck in the doorframe two or three at a time. Kit began to run back towards the Sea Duck, followed by the cracks of a single gun firing.

"That wasn't me! Fools! Get them!" Bang! "They get away! Look!" Bang! "Get out of that doorframe you silly boys! Go! Get them!" Bang! Bang!

Kit, his legs burning from the effort, opened up the passenger side door, taking care to avoid the spinning blades. When he got there, he saw Huey doing the same, climbing into the pilot's seat.

"I'm driving."

The S.I.L men had finally worked out the origin of the mysterious order, and were bearing down on the already well-perforated Sea Duck. The wheels in the plane's belly spun, causing the great yellow bird to spin around towards freedom. It picked up speed, heading for the rapidly closing Hangar doors.

Kit yelled as he buckled his safety belt, "Don't you dare scream 'we're not gonna make it'!"

Huey, using one hand to lower the goggles onto his face, gave a grimly determined look through the gunshot-riddled window.

The Sea Duck moved closer, picking up speed and rising into the air slightly in the indoor hangar. Huey gave a yell as he hit the throttle, willing the yellow plane forward. The ever shrinking length of light receded with every second, until the Sea Duck was close enough for the Vulture to bite down and end their lives.

Swoosh!

And then, they were clear. Nothing but clear skies greeted them all around. Huey, his hands shaking, his eyes wide and fiery, instructed the airplane on, back towards Louie's to settle this.

Kit, holding his heaving chest, looked over at Huey. "You're crazy. What's the big idea?"

"The big idea is this." Huey held up one hand and shook. Out of the white feathers fell a thin white powder, the residue from the thrown melon.

"You've got dandruff?"

"No. Louie's been playing us for saps. We're going straight over there and..."

"Whoa, Huey, Little Breeches, I'm sure there's some reason..."

"Of course there is. Money. Money does some ugly things to people. Believe me, I've seen." He wiped his hand on his jacket, leaving the rest of the powder there, before replacing his hand at the wheel. "The Islands been on hard times for a long, long time. Nobody comes to the bar anymore except us. He's got a huge family. I'd almost understand if he didn't drag us into it."

"No. I can't believe... Louie's got principles. He wouldn't... He couldn't."

Huey reached out the window and adjusted the rearview mirror there, spotting on their tail three of the fighters, graceful hunting hawks of the skies, bearing down on them. "Don't relax yet, Old man. We got company."

The three fighter planes zoomed past the Sea Duck, moving through the air like fish through water, making the yellow cargo plane look like a hippopotamus strolling through a swamp. In perfect formation, the three fighters slowed their speeds, surrounding the Duck above, and to two directions below.

Their radio crackled to life, "Turn back," Said a voice, sounding rather bored, "if you do not turn around by the count of ten we will be forced to shoot you down. Do you understand?"

Kit seemed to have gotten over his shock at Louie's betrayal. He looked over at Huey and said, simply, "I got this. Scoot over."

"Now wait a minute, Old man..."

"Do you want to die or do you want to live? Move over or I swear I am crashing this bird into the sea."

Huey sighed and let Kit take his seat.

Kit went on, "Airmail drop. You understand?"

Huey blinked for a moment, but ten steeled his expression and nodded. He then went back into the cargo hold.

"10... 9... 8... 7..."

Suddenly, the Sea Duck jerked itself upward. The Jet directly above just barely got away from the bulky plane before it was jostled out of the air. Soon, the Sea Duck was rising up, up towards the clouds. Keeping pace behind the insufferably slow vehicle, the three jets followed its upward curve, firing their guns at the big yellow target.

Soon, the Sea Duck began to slow, not able to maintain such a steep angle for long.

"Now kid!"

The hangar doors opened. About twenty crates of varying sizes fell about out of the cargo hold, a few of the open ones sending melons falling in an unavoidable scattershot towards the three unsuspecting jets.

The first Jet, up front, tried to dodge one crate, and in doing so found its canopy shattered by the rapidly falling corner of another. On the impact, the crate opened, spilling wood splinters and busted melons mixed with cocaine showering over the stunned pilot. Compromised, he managed to hit the eject. However, the cracked canopy, held down and jammed by crate debris, failed to open, and his Body was sent crashing through the canopy glass, shattering it. As his parachute opened, he was unconscious, and not long for this world.

The second managed to avoid the crates, but not the melons. Splash! Poof! Cocaine water balloons obscured his vision. Not seeing where he was going, he dodged left at the shadow of what he thought was a crate. This knee-jerk action sent his jet crashing into the first jet, still climbing without its pilot, causing both to go up in flames. The pilot was instantly incinerated in the ensuing fireball.

The third jet, wisely, terminated its climb, and began to descend. The crates and debris missed, and a few of the melons painted the back of the jet plane pure white. It was completely unharmed.

Before Kit could go too high and stall the engines, Kit pushed the controls down, terminating its own climb and leveling out. Kit could feel himself go light-headed from the difference in air pressure. He decided to descend.

All of a sudden, out of a cloudbank to Kit's left, the Jet jumped out. Kit yelled as he saw the gas-masked face of the jet pilot through the clear canopy of the jet. The machine guns blared as the fighter passed over the Sea Duck. Kit flinched, and took a moment to check himself before figuring out his next course of action. Unfortunately, a slight burning odor knocked him out of that.

"Kid! You still alive?"

"Barely, Old man. What's going on?"

Each could barely make the other out over the rushing air outside.

"One more on our tail. The Engine's on fire. It won't last long. Anything left?"

"One melon."

"Oh good! We can throw it at them."

"Good Idea!"

"What?"

Huey untied himself from the length of rope attached to the inside of the plane that had allowed him to drop all the cargo without dropping himself. He had noticed at the time, in passing, that it looked like the kind of rope with a handle that water-skiers used. Without time to ponder this, however, he took up the melon in his hands. The best pitcher of the Duckburg sandlot league was here to ride again.

"Fly low!"

No questions, not anymore. Louie's was just over the horizon, and if they could somehow shake this last guy, they were home free. Kit eased the Sea Duck down.

As the sea rose up to meet Huey's vision below, so did the jet lower down like a god of death out of the sky, both guns aimed inside the cargo hold, ready to shred everything inside. It was now or never. Huey took his melon, took aim, and pitched for his life.

The Jet, not expecting a ballistic weapon, didn't have the reflexes to dodge the flying fruit. Poof! Cocaine powder obscured the pilot's vision, causing a panic in the pilot, causing him to lower himself down further into the water. The nose went under, and the sudden drag caused the jet to flip itself around, the metal breaking apart, wings flying off, and finally, pilot, plane, and all, disappearing under the waves.

The Sea Duck's left engine began to stall, as Kit began to bring them in for a landing. Too fast, the bird approached, crashing its right pontoon into the wooden dock, obliterating the wood. The plane, it's right foot crippled, dipped onto its side as it slowed to a halt, just before a wing crashed into the front door of Louie's bar.

***

Naturally, after all that commotion outside on the dock, every man, woman, and child running Louie's bar had gathered in the front room to figure out what was going on. The resident mother on duty, a large-set orangutan wearing glass jewelry and a grass skirt, was running around trying desperately to gather the curious younger children and get them out of further danger. Louie, in his chair, sat uncomprehending, oblivious or uncaring to the strange noises and shakes coming from outside.

Crack! The door flew open, revealing the rough leather jacket and goggles of the duck, Huey, with the large, graying brown bear standing behind him, with a powerless expression of sorrow that refused to make contact with anything in the room.

"Where's Louie?" said the Duck, "I want an explanation."

The rattling sigh. "Issat you Baloo? You come to pay an old man his last respects?"

"Cut it, gramps, I know the score," The blood was rising up to Huey's face, turning his cheeks his favorite color, "what's the big idea, you trying to use us as mules?"

"What about mules, son?" A breath, "I can't hear so good out my left ear."

"I said," He then got right up in Louie's face, grabbing each arm of the rolling wicker-backed chair, "You used us."

Most of the men and many of the children began to approach, to defend the honor of their grandfather. A wrinkled, silver arm raised to stop them in their tracks.

The normally grey, jolly, ripe face of the orangutan was a wall of cool rage at this. Huey could smell the stale odor of a man past his prime, mixed with the breath tinged with betel and tobacco. The rattling breath was a cigar store in Huey's face, but he stayed with his face close, not even closing his eyes to the warm wall of a pant.

"Are you sure you're wantin' to come into my place and say that, cuz'?" A rattling breath acted as punctuation, "I been called a lot of things, in my day. Earned some of 'em too," rattle, "But saying I betrayed a friend as old an' true as Kit Cloudkicker. That's grounds for me asking you to leave the hard way. Know what I mean?"

After a moment of staring into the cloudy eyes of the Orangutan, Huey straightened himself up, "Kit? You saw the same thing I did. You tell him. I give up." He then walked over to the bar, where Orin still tended.

On Huey's approach, Orin seemed to shy away, and Huey couldn't blame him.

"Louie," began Kit. Stalled, he tried to start again, "Louie, I can't deny what the kid said. There was... Those melons... It was cocaine, Louie. Cocaine. I've known you to deal with a little bit of the unsavories when business was down, but..."

"Let me stop you right there, cuz'" Rattle, "I had those melons delivered to me by a trusted... Tee-ar-you-aich-ested... Source by a brother on another island. The only fellas to lay their hands on them were me," Rattle, "And my bartender, my main man Orin."

Huey's eyes went wide. He stared up at Orin, the red blush of rage returning to his cheeks, as the pieces all fell together behind that creased, red face. Orin, for his part, had the presence of mind to be looking elsewhere, his head and expression hidden under the usually never worn straw hat.

"If you accuse me you accuse my whole family. Even from a friend..." Rattle, Kit visibly cringed at the worked-up sigh, putting the old man one step closer to death, "...Even from a friend as good as you Baloo, I won't stand for it." He rose a hand, "These men will be leaving now."

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Huey did not stop staring his knives towards Orin, who gave a demure look from under his hat before hiding again. Huey and Kit were both led by two of the larger primates under King Louie's patriarchy towards the exit.

"Nobody move!" called a voice as the door was slammed open for the second time in twenty minutes, "Under the jurisdiction of the S.I.L everyone in this bar is under house arrest, yes no?"

Kit and Huey both gulped visibly as the Commodore walked in through the door flanked by about ten S.I.L goons, and plenty more besides outside. Kit looked as if he was about to say something, but was cut off by those Spanish tones.

"Ah, ah. First fella to calls me Junior is charged with whatever I feel up to charging you with at the time." The coyote began to pace about the room, inspecting the miscellaneous collection of orangutans of all shapes and sizes. "Now. Mr. Cloudkicker and Mr. Duck I've caught up with. So does that mean that you are all party to this illicit ring of smugglers? Hm?" He rounded on the mother, who flinched her arms out in front of the children, "You, Madame?" He turned on his heel towards the two bouncers, who let go of Kit and Huey as they were skewered by the Commodore's speech, "Perhaps you two? Hiding pure cocaine in melons is bad enough, but you should have seen the fight these two put up."

With a calculating eye towards Huey Duck, the Commodore lifted his right foot up parallel to the ground, raised both fists up in the accepted 'fisticuffs' position, and began to swing his left arm like a pendulum while hopping up and down on his right foot, exhibiting a sort of exaggerated pantomime of a boxer getting ready to fight. He made mock-duck noises as he did this, causing Huey to begin to sweat in equal parts nerves and recognition.

The Commodore broke the strange dance and slapped a knee, laughing it up. "We-hell. Let's go. Everyone, in the airship. We haven't got all..."

The rattle stopped everything cold, "Now just you wait, son. There weren't no cocaine in them melons. I checked 'em myself."

"I'm begging to differ. Ein?"

A tall, thin dog with a round nose and steel eyes dropped a melon on the floor. It cracked open on the floorboards, splitting in half, causing the balloon inside to burst. A small, white dust cloud spread over the rough wood, settling into the cracks between the boards.

Louie looked at the settling powder, then up to Orin, pieces falling together one by one. He then stared at the Commodore and gave a simple statement, "My family had nothing to do with it."

"Now just wait one darn-tootin' minu..." Commodore Kid began to say.

"It was me. Not my family. Not those boys I roped into all this. It was me."

The room burst with activity. Each family member had something to say about this. Orin spoke the loudest. Insisting it was him. Never wanting this.

The crowd was silenced by another wave of the wrinkled hand, accompanied by the loudest thing Huey had ever heard the old man say, "I don't want to hear any of that!" Rattle, "I did it. One hunnerd percent me! Understood!"

Orin all but vaulted over the bar, loping up to his Grandfather, "No! No, I won't let you." He turned, "I'm the one. I did it. I stashed the Coke in the melons. It was me!"

The Commodore walked up and pushed the ape out of the way, "Kid, it's way too late for that kind of heroics."

Huey cut in, saying with no small amount of smugness, "He can prove it."

"You say something, Duck?" Yelled the Commodore his hand raised to slap the beak to the other side of his face.

"No! Stop! I can." Orin fell to his knees, "Under my bed. All the tools I used. No prints on them but mine. Please, Mr. Kid. Please don't take away Grandfather."

The coyote gestured, sending two grunts up the stairs to search the bedrooms for incriminating evidence, he then turned his face back to the groveling Ape. "And how do I know he didn't just dictate for you what to do, yes? He is an old man, with feeble fingers. Perhaps he couldn't use the melonballer no more so good. Or perhaps he couldn't stick the pieces back on too right. Or maybe..."

Crunck! All eyes turned towards King Louie, with a pair of Araca scissors, slicing the hard nut into thin bits. He then took each slice with the precision of a watchmaker, and wrapped each one in a small, wide betel leaf, folding the green sinews as fine as any origami, adding just a dash of tobacco inside to taste. The hush over the room continued as he brought the paan, the mixture of nut and leaf, up to his mouth and began to chew with his red-stained teeth. He then noticed everyone was staring at him.

"Treat before you go, gentlemen?" he said, holding up a tray of the little folded proofs of innocence.

The Commodore stared at the tray, then at the little scissors. "Suits me. Let them go men. We're taking the kid."

Both Huey and Kit were pushed roughly aside as the S.I.L goons approached the young orangutan. Orin seemed almost grateful as his long arms were slapped into shackles. He let himself be let towards the door. He gave one final look back towards his family, each of them stunned and staring, with the sole exception of King Louie, who had turned his face away, enjoying the warming sensation of the nut. Orin's face fell, and he let himself be led, dejected, out the door.

Huey, seeing this last bit, decided to stand up, "Wait. Wait..."

"No no no! No last minute turns-arounds, Huey Duck," Snapped the Commodore, "You have a warning and a busted plane to show for this little run-in with us. Don't forget the little debt you owe the US government, yes?"

Stunned by these words, Huey looked down.

"Ah-ha. I have done my research this time, no? I do say. If it were my jurisdiction I would bring you in right now. Anyone breaking a law in my skies deserves punishment." Commodore Kid adjusted his hat. "Take care, Huey Duck, and watch out for the... how you say? Draft board."

With a derisive laugh, the coyote and the remaining members of the S.I.L, having attained as much evidence as they need to charge Orin with whatever they want. Soon, it was just Huey, Kit, and the orangutan family, beginning to retake some semblance of normality.

A hand clapped onto Huey's shoulder.

"Come on, Little Breeches. Let's go home."

***

The ride back was completely silent. The walk back into the shack of a main office was even quieter, with not even the roar of an engine to fill up the space in the air between the two.

Kit opened the door to Higher-for-hire, unconsciously looking around to see if any of the old guard were back yet, but of course they weren't. Baloo was gone. Rebecca was gone. Molly was off living in America, and all Kit had to show for them was a wall full of black and white photos of people and places he remembered less of each and every day.

However, today there was someone there.

Huey was the first to speak, "Who are you?"

"Huey, be kind. He might be a customer."

He was a tiger. The fur on Kit's neck ruffled as he sat at the old oak desk, usually the domain reserved for the former owner, Rebecca Cunningham, all those years ago. He had his feet up, revealing a set of very expensive Italian shoes, and the cuffs of equally expensive slacks. The impeccably cleaned and groomed appearance of the newcomer impressed upon Kit a memory of many years ago, when the Cape had an economy to speak of, it was all run by one man with cool demeanor and one eye on the bottom line. But how? He died.

"Shere Khan?"

"Close," The voice was practically the same. The tiger, much younger than any Shere Khan Kit had ever met, stood up slowly, brushing the accumulated dust of the office off of his duds. He then extended a hand out, an open invitation for everyone to introduce themselves.

"I am Farid Kagan, president of Khan Industries in Bombay; subsidiary of McDuck enterprises," He smiled, "My Uncle spoke very highly of you."


	3. Episode 3

Episode 3:

The Audubon Bay Bridge, portal through which the teeming metropolis of Saint Canard meets the company town of Duckburg. A half-moon lit the scene atop the high towers of the gothic suspension bridge. A figure, invisible to all on the shore but the sharpest eye and longest telescope, dressed in her violet cape and hat, practiced a slow, deliberate motion, each movement sliding a muscle gently along her body underneath her double breasted coat. The downy coat of feathers covering her bare hands and tail section ruffled in the deceptively strong winds causing the steel cords of the bridge to whistle and shake. No matter, however, as her body, lithe and supple, and yet somehow immovable by any outside force, slowly, excruciatingly, placed itself into the next position in the kata.

She heard him before she saw him. Over the howling winds atop the bridge's tower, just inside of her hearing, ragged breath caused her ears to prick up. Slowly, timing the intruder's position by the labored gasps, Darkwing Duck slowly moved each muscle back into a neutral position, before reaching down for her elegant bow and quiver.

Knocking a single, simple, iron-tipped arrow, Darkwing walked over to the edge of the bridge tower and pointed the tip down, pulling taut the bow, lining the view over the shaft between the two eyes surrounded by a green cloth.

"Whoa!" Yelled the Green Phantom, nearly losing his already tenuous grip on the Sure-Stick wall-grips he was using to scale the Audubon Bay Bridge, "It's me!"

The arrow loosened, slightly. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard..." He grunted, beginning the climb up onto the flat top of the tower, flopping over onto the steel-riveted floor. "I... I heard you come here... sometimes."

"Oh you did." The arrow was finally loosened and replaced back into the quiver on Darkwing's back. "Good job. Now go away."

The Green Phantom stood, waving his arms, which still had the wall-climbers attached by the hands, resembling two sheets of sticky flypaper. "Now wait..."

"You're not the first horny wannabe to follow me around once you figure out I'm a girl," Darkwing said with obvious annoyance as she sat on the edge of the roof, "It usually gets them killed. It hasn't been my fault yet and I don't intend for that to change." She patted the space next to her before going on, "So, gadgets. How's business?"

He began to step towards her, but the sure-Sticks had stuck his webbed feet to the ground fast. He struggled to lift up his feet from the straps attaching them to the fly paper. He reached down to undo the buckles, but found them stuck tight. He then tried the obvious next step of peeling the pads up with his fingers after throwing the ones attached to his hands off into Audubon Bay. It worked for one foot, but unfortunately left a few feathers behind painfully on the bottoms of the pads meant for adhering to hard metal and stone structures. With one foot on the ground and the other off, he lost balance, falling hard backwards onto the hard steel floor. Trying one more time from his supine position, he tried the buckles one more time, working them flawlessly, causing them to stick fast to the bridge, probably never to come up again.

His fingers smarting, Louie stood and walked over to the edge of the bridge tower.

"Why do you use that crap? You're obviously not used to it," said Darkwing with a look of superior knowing, "Have you trained at all with it?"

"Not as such," said Louie, "But it's the best stuff you can get."

"Not if you don't know how to use it. Have you found your grappling hook yet?"

"N-Yes. Of course." He crossed his arms. "Well fine. If I don't use the stuff from the Gearloose Magazine's 'Moonlight Vigilante' line, what should I use?"

"You really want my opinion, gadgets?"

"Why not."

"Fine. I think if you can't do anything without those toys, you shouldn't be out here at all. You should be in bed, swimming in your money or something."

"That's not fair. The first Darkwing was all about using Gadgets."

"My Dad had _one_ gadget. A gas gun with variable ammunition. Beyond that he had martial arts training from the Goose Lee, was an accomplished, talented detective, and he would frequently practice with the gun, and knew how to take care of it to make sure it would never get in the way of his work." A light blush of anger on her face brought her cheeks a few steps closer to matching her fiery red hair. "Compared to him I'm just a bully with a bow and arrow."

After the pause, during which Louie wanted to talk back, say anything to refute her points, his pursed beak spoke all that he could say.

"Thought so," said Darkwing.

After another pause, Louie gave a sheepish smirk, "Your dad, huh?"

"Yeah. So... oh..." Her face turned towards the Green Phantom quickly.

"Let's see," He smiled out, getting back for the tongue lashing he had been handed, "A Duck, would be around 57 today, who had adopted a young, female Goose."

Darkwing stood quickly, trying to drown out the words with a sudden flurry of activity. Louie stood to follow.

"Of course! The Darkwing Duck Fan Club. Charter member: Former Scrooge McDuck pilot Launchpad McQuack, Madame President: one Gosalyn Mallard, adopted daughter of... Oh dear... Drake Mallard, A.K.A Darkwing Duck number one."

Darkwing rounded on Louie, "Stop it!"

"Just returning the favor for last time. What? You're the only one allowed to be handy with the detective skills?"

"No. I just... Don't."

"Why not?" He began to enunciate each syllable of the next word so that it came out in triple the time, "Gos-a-l..."

"Because a secret Identity is... If I get unmasked... I can't let anyone know. Forget it."

"Is this an honor thing? Can't get unmasked or the ghost of pops won't like it?"

"Oh, and I'm sure Mr. McDuck is just thrilled to see how you've been spending his money on stupid toys!"

Louie flinched. "That's not fair."

"You have a habit of saying that, Gadgets." Darkwing turned towards the glittering city skyline, twinkling with enough midnight oil to power a gas mower until the end of time. "What are you doing looking for me anyway? Come to rub it in that you've figured me out?"

"No... No. It's just..." Louie gave an annoyed grunt, raising a knuckle to rest on his forehead. "I've got a lead on something. I think it might be too big for me." He gestured angrily as he spoke this, his face showing his indignation, "And of course _you're_ the biggest other hero I happen to know. I'm sorry for bringing up your Dad. I need your help."

There was a pause. The wind whistled past the two caped heroes, before changing direction in mid-blow, causing each cape to dance in the air parallel to the other. The violet-robed goose then turned slowly.

"...So...?"

The Green Phantom held out a small slip of paper he had hidden in the inner folds of his costume. A list of dates, names, places, and very large numbers. Darkwing took the slip and looked it over, her green eyes mincing along the page in a typewriter rhythm.

"Someone is doing some serious laundry."

Louie smote his forehead, "Dammit! Why can't I think up lines like that?"

"It gets easier as you get older, Kid." She held up the paper. "How'd this turn up?"

"Well, er, I used some connections."

"Paid somebody you mean."

"Well... yes."

"McDuck must be so proud." Before Louie could retaliate, however, Darkwing calmly bade him, "Go on."

"Well, see, it's all there isn't it? Hundreds of thousands of dollars have been filtering down through the streets, funding drugs, pimps, super villains, robbery, extortion, paid murder... It's like a mob without the mob, just a free-floating wad of cash that came from nowhere and ends up right back where it started in a big circle."

"And you need my help because...?"

"Because, well..." He gestured towards the slip of paper, "turn it over."

Darkwing Duck did, and in an instant, her face lit up in sudden recognition. The ends of her bill then turned up. Louie saw this and furrowed his brow.

"What?"

Darkwing held up the rough pencil drawing. A Rooster approaching the dusk of his age, wrinkles beginning to line his face, his comb and waddle only slightly shriveled by the years. It would be a quite harmless picture if not for the segmented steel beak that looked as strong as any young duck's bill.

"Steelbeak? You want to team-up for Steelbeak?" She laughed, "He's a joke!"

"He was, like, one of your Dad's archenemies."

"Yeah, Ten years ago, when he was backed by F.O.W.L. He's been smalltime ever since Dad and S.H.U.S.H forced them out of the country. Nowadays he's just an aging glorified pimp with a minor superpower. He's the one behind this?"

"No, He's just as high as I could climb. He's taking payments from someone higher-up, but nobody seems to know who. We need to get the story straight from the horse's beak... er... mouth."

"Higher-up... You mean like a corporation?"

"Yeah. So? They should be held just as accountable as the rest of us."

"Well said, Mr. Moneybags."

"Thanks... Hey!"

Darkwing shook her head. "Gadgets. A little piece of advice. Superheroes don't do much white-collar crime." She approached, before placing the slip of paper back in his hand and closing his fingers over it. "I get why you're interested, considering your upbringing, but look at it from the rest of our perspectives. If you go after someone for Tax fraud or Money laundering, you can't just jump in and beat someone up. It takes finesse and detective work, and even after you get yourself an airtight case it can all be thrown out by any half-competent corporate lawyer on the grounds that a masked vigilante is an unreliable source of evidence, so of course it corners you into either unmasking in shame for one lousy executive's head, or letting it go and fighting crime at street-level where we belong. You get what I'm telling you."

Louie didn't dare look at Darkwing's face. He understood all too well that she was absolutely right. The likes of his Uncle's old rivals-in-business Flintheart Glomgold and John Rockerduck were well-equipped with their teams of very expensive lawyers, good enough to find a loophole in a straight line. But still...

"I'm still going."

"Why?"

"Because it's a crime isn't it? And it's funding all this other crime. Even if we can't cut the money off at the source, we can at least plug up the hole for a bit."

"What's with all the 'we' talk?" Darkwing said, holding up her hands, "You don't actually expect me to team-up with a no-talent E-lister like you, do you?"

"You are interested in getting this money off the street aren't you?"

"Well..." She sighed, "Fine. We'll go have a chat with Steelbeak, but follow my lead. Just because he's smalltime doesn't mean he's still not dangerous."

And with that she reached into the pocket of her jacket and stepped, freefalling off the top of the windy bridge tower. Louie yelled in surprise and ran over the end, looking over the edge but finding nothing.

Suddenly, Louie's ears were filled with the sound of jet engines. "What are you looking?" cried a voice behind him.

He looked, seeing Darkwing Duck standing on top of a large jet shaped like a duck's face.

"Remember how I said Dad only had the one gadget?"

"Y-yeah?"

"I guess I lied a little. Hop on."

***

Long, orange legs, coated in the filthy ripped criss-cross of the fishnet stockings, walked up and down the street outside of the fenced-in bungalow. The click of the heels encasing the webbed feet of the ducks echoed large over the compound and down the street. Just over the break in the stockings was the deceptively soft-looking white rump, grown hard from years of disuse, and bleached back to a natural-seeming white from its normal dingy, unwashed color. What little clothes they wore were the kind that suggested nudity even where actual nudity seemed tame. In each dainty hand, one pair wrinkled, the other pair bruised and bloodied from ill-use, was held an automatic machinegun. The women's faces, each ducks, were heavily made in deep purples and greens, with bright red painted on Orange beaks. Each of the three eyes between then was dead to the world.

"Killer hookers?" said Louie from the alley across the street, in a desperate hush, "You didn't say anything about killer hookers."

"You gotta have a gimmick in this biz. When the secret agent game dropped out from under him, 'killer hookers' must have been the next one down on the list." Darkwing scratched the bottom of her short bill. "He's probably got at least one of each."

"One... of each?"

"Oh you know. Any team of fighting prostitutes will inevitably have one who uses each fetish or kink as her primary means of offense. The bondage girl, the pole-dancer, the Whip-lady, probably a naughty nurse to patch everyone else up. Good bet that he's got a ninja as well."

"What fetish is that?"

"The fetish every crime boss has for having a ninja under his command." In a small rustle, Darkwing was scaling the wall up to the roof opposite from the bungalow.

"Wait up!" called the Green Phantom as he fumbled in his costume for an effective device for climbing up a flat wall. He let out a quiet 'ah' as he pulled out a set of strap-on claws before applying them to the palms of his hands. As he approached the wall and prepared to begin is ascend, an arrow rained down from above, grabbing onto his cape, before reeling itself up onto the roof, causing Louie to yelp in surprise as he was suddenly lifted up into the air by his neck.

As Darkwing came into his vision, scowling at him, he tried a sheepish smile, thwarted by being roughly jerked onto the rooftop by the winch Darkwing had set up to pull him up.

"Too slow," said Darkwing, simply, "Come on."

She quickly knocked an arrow on a rope, firing it up over the street, to lay down on the roof of the distant house. Testing the strength of the grapple, she gave an experimental tug before nodding and tying the loose end of the rope to a jutting ventilator. Grabbing an extra arrow from her quiver, one with a thick metallic shaft, she grabbed it from both ends, slinging it around the rope before jumping off. She slid down the roof, her body ready to land like a cat.

Wishing to do her example proud, Louie pulled out a fairly simple gadget, a sort of telescoping toilet plunger, a $1000 piece of equipment with the specific purpose of copying fingerprints without powder and mess. Since it never worked for fingerprints, he figured the shaft end of it would be useful for helping him slide to the next roof.

Wump. Darkwing landed with the slightest sound on the roof, before making room for her companion.

Pow! The Green Phantom smacked into the slanted rooftop of the bungalow. Darkwing massaged her temples.

"If you're going to tag along, at least be quiet about it." Then she had disappeared over the crest of the roof, followed closely by a slightly limping Green Phantom. The two figures, soon side-by-side, soon jumped off of the roof, down onto the soft, darkened grass of the back-yard. Almost instantly, the two beaks were pointed towards the nearest window and into the world of sin inside.

"I didn't even think that was possible," said Louie, clearly impressed.

"Come on," admonished Darkwing, grabbing the Green Phantom by the bill roughly, "Gawk as whores on your own time."

"Ffnn! Ffn!" answered Louie.

With each new window was a new spectacle or display of wanton sin. Louie had trouble keeping his focus, but Darkwing Duck was tough as nails, as if she had already seen everything the world had thrown at her.

"There!" whispered Darkwing suddenly.

"Where?"

Louie was directed to a large square window, where, in a long hallway, there was a man, with cigar seated firmly in his right hand, and a pure white suit draped elegantly over his aging body. Louie could only see his back as he conversed with another man, the ubiquitous round-nosed dogs so common nearly everywhere one could go, who was being caressed by two unclean women, one in a nurse theme, and one unmistakably a ninja.

"Told you."

"Fine." Louie scratched his head, "So how do we get to him?"

"I say that when the guy leaves with the floozies, we grab him. You got an auto-net or something in there?"

"N-no. Should I?"

Darkwing rolled her eyes, "Fine. Then it's the old-fashioned way. We're both younger than he is, so we should be able to overpower..."

But Louie wasn't listening. He had found three stones, of nearly equal size and shape. The two stones stroked his memory banks, calling back foreign locations, adventurous locales, and fascinating weapons.

"...And if he tries to bit anywhere... what are you doing?"

"Rope."

"What?"

"Rope."

"Gadgets, the guy is starting to leave. Get your head in the game."

"It IS in the game. DW. Give. Me. Rope."

Furrowing her brow deeply, she complied, giving him a section of the strong cord she used in junction with her various trick arrows. Working in a flurry, Louie began working, tying knots like only a lifetime member of the Junior woodchucks could, attaching rope to rock, and rope to rope. Soon, he held in his hands three sections of cord knotted together, with a stone at the end of each end.

"What...?"

"Break the window."

The man had left with his floozies, and Steelbeak was turning around towards the window, exposing his shining metal beak to the two heroes. With no more time for plans, Darkwing knocked an arrow with a small explosive charge and shot it directly onto the cross-bar of the window. The small explosion was muffled, but powerful, and caused the window to splinter and crumble. The Rooster's face showed an expression of surprise as he saw a duck swing two rocks on strings over his head, before launching them through the air.

Soon, Steelbeak's arms and legs were bound, tangled by the momentum of the three spinning stones. He tried to call out, but one of the rocks snapped up and struck him on the back of the skull. He fell, stunned and silenced from the blow.

Darkwing actually looked impressed. "Where did you learn that?"

"South America. Middle of nowhere. I forget what treasure we were chasing after, but there was a Gaucho, and Uncle Donald once again had the lousy luck to get a donkey where the rest of us got horses. I... uh... picked it up, I guess."

Firing a grappling arrow and pulling the prone body out of the broken window, Darkwing smiled. "Well now, Gadgets. We may make a hero of you yet." Heave. "C'mon. We need to get him far away before the whores realize what's happened."

Louie nodded, grabbing the large rooster by the ropes binding him and pulling him out through the window.

***

With lights dancing behind his closed eyelids, Steelbeak moaned. He winced at the pain in his head before he felt it around the base of his neck. His eyes opened to near darkness, which his eyes adjusted themselves to. He was upside down and tied up, hanging by a water tower on some city rooftop. He could see the Audubon Bay Bridge off in the distance. He clicked his metal beak in annoyance.

"Awake?"

"Cute," said the bound chanticleer, "I don't think I need to mention that whoever you are, you are messing with the wrong fowl."

A small voice whispered in his ear, "I am the terror that flaps in the night."

His eyed bugged out suddenly, "Darkwing Duck?"

"You heard the stanza Steelbeak..." She and the Green Phantom chose that moment to step into Steelbeak's line of sight. "...And now we want answers."

Taking in the pair upside down crime fighters, the aged cock gave a sneer, "Ah. Gowan then. Ask away. It's not like I'll actually say anything before my gals come and get me."

"They won't find us here," said Louie in his most menacing voice, before holding up a slip of paper, "You ever hear about a sum of money in the ballpark of, oh, say, six hundred grand?"

"Who are you supposed to be? The new Quiverwing Quack?"

"N-Shut up." His eyes lowered, signifying the inner search for something good to say, "I'm the one asking questions here."

"Nice line, Gadgets," said Darkwing, "Step aside."

With her deft, strong hand she grabbed onto Steelbeak's shriveled wattle and pulled.

"AH! Owowow!"

"Now do you remember that money?"

"Ducky... if that really IS you under that mask... I see more money than that in a week. You want I should remember one specific payoff?"

"I know your game, Steelbeak. Before my friend here dug up that payout, you've been strictly small-crimes only, just Junkies and sex addicts dressed up as second-story men getting killed more often than pulling in profits. Your little hooker army is all well and good, but for all they work as bodyguards they don't pull in nearly as much as hookers. Your 'empire' is all flash and no substance and everyone knows it. Who would trust you with money to launder?"

"I see what you want and I ain't giving i- ahh! Ahh!"

His wattle was sore from the sharp pull it was given. The sensitive flesh screamed with mistreatment.

"Still feel that way steel?"

"Urg... So what? It's not like I got anything to lose from the likes of you. If I spill the beans I stand to getting whacked. What are you gonna do? Pull on me some more?"

"That can be arranged," said Darkwing, her hand slowly rising up towards Steelbeak's upside down crotch. Louie followed the hand, rapt at what it would do, his eyes growing larger by the second.

The threat itself, a usual one levied against him and his ilk, would have fallen on deaf ears had not Louie's earnest expression caught him off guard. Louie seemed to really believe that this Darkwing pretender would do it. A sudden thrill in his stomach caused his body to begin struggling against his bonds.

"Get away from me!"

"We'll let you go if you give us who we want." Her hand hovered closer to the Rooster's loins. "Hey gadgets. Want to see if what they say about roosters is true?"

"Wh-" he gulped, "What do they say about roosters?"

"That all that puffing and blustering is compensation..." And with that, her fingers closed around the button of Steelbeak's white slacks.

"Stop! Stop! I'll talk!"

The hand kept unbuttoning, "You better hurry, I'm close. Gadgets? You got anything sharp?"

The sight of the Green Phantom absently searching his costume for something with an edge was what finally caused the sweat-covered rooster to break.

"It's... It's..." With red face dripping in sweat, Steelbeak gave a fast swallow, "It's... McDuck!"

The sound of a metallic implement, a pair of telescoping pliers, falling on the ground drew both other pairs of eyes. Darkwing took focus back quickly, grasping Steelbeak's cheeks and forcing his beak to face hers.

"McDuck's been dead for three years. Wanna try again?"

"No! Not the old man himself. The company! McDuck Enterprises. They've been handing us dirty money for the past year!"

"Liar!"

With rage in his eyes, the Green Phantom grasped the lapels of Steelbeak's jacket.

"Gadgets?"

"Liar! I'll kill you for that." It was then clear that while his left hand was taken up in bunching up a fistful of white cloth, his right hand was occupied by the earlier discarded set of pliers, which he was snapping open and closed menacingly. "Who was it really?"

"I ain't lying! It was McDuck's company." With both eyes focused fast on the clinking teeth of the pliers, Steelbeak nearly yelled, "It could even go to the very top. That new guy, the trust fund baby. What's his face?" He thought for maybe half a second, "D-Dewey. Dewey Duck, the old man's nephew. He's the one you want."

"Wrong answer," said the Green Phantom as the pliers began snaking their way up towards the Cock's cock.

For a tense moment, it seemed as if Louie might actually do it, and he very well might have if not for the sudden appearance of a ninja star with a breast-tassel attached, cutting Steelbeak down from his hanging. The now-freed rooster instantly began backpedaling away.

As he stood frantically, he yelled, "You're crazy, fella. Biko! Get them!" He then began to run.

"Gadgets!" But she was cut off by the appearance of a scantily-clad loon, who had still appeared to be invisible until she was close enough to touch. Darkwing had ducked down under the sword-swing just fast enough that she was spared a few missing parts.

Temporarily knocked out of his volatile rage, the Green Phantom jumped away from the Ninja-whore, brandishing the pliers like a club. The loon, covered with black, thin, gauzy panels all over her body that did nothing to hide her nakedness underneath, judged the scared-looking Louie to be the easier target, and thus went after him first, attacking with her weapon, a long Chinese straight sword. Louie, for his part, began to take random gadgets out of his various pockets and pouches. Taking each expensive doodad in hand, he chucked them artlessly towards the ninja, only to have them sliced in half by the sword, handled with the deft sensuality of an experienced pole-dancer. After a well-thrown night-vision telescope, reduced to a long metal junk tube by a gyrating blow, Louie had found that his steady backwards hop had betrayed him, causing him to tip over the edge of the high city roof and fall to the hard pavement below. The ninja then began to peek over the edge to make sure.

Thunk! A thin strip of gauze around her legs was pinned to the ground by a simple arrow. Her mobility impeded momentarily by the arrow's shaft, she spun around just in time to deflect another flying arrow with her sword. She looked to see Darkwing already knocking another arrow, this one with some devious device attached to the tip.

The two women stared each other down for a moment, before they each let their weapons fly. The ninja hooker quickly threw her sword, straight and true, towards the hero, who took aim in the half-second of time allotted to her efforts. She let the arrow fly, striking the sword in mid-flight, causing a small explosion to shatter the tip of the blade and send the whole thing off of its course.

In the confusion, the Ninja had knelt to quickly unhook herself from the arrow pinning her to the ground, but found, instead, the clinging hand of the Green Phantom, his eyes wide in the urge for survival and blood. He had clutched the girl's hand fast in a bone-crushing grip, which she retaliated to with the long, black nails, leaving long, red gashes in his hand. Working through the pain and still dangling from the roof with his other hand, Louie pulled on the girl. Losing her balance, the girl was sent screaming off of the high roof, silenced only by her unceremonious landing on the ground.

"Come on," said Darkwing as she grabbed a hold of her fellow hero's free hand, "Get up here."

In a moment of difficult pulling and grunting, the Green Phantom was hoisted back up onto the roof. He laid himself out on the flat surface, fully intending to not stand for the next day and a half... and yet.

"Where are you going?" asked the sitting Darkwing as Louie stood up and walked towards the fire escape on the other side of the roof, "Steelbeak is long gone by now."

"I'm not going after Steelbeak," he said simply, "I've got my next target."

Darkwing Duck stood, running up and laying a hand on Louie's shoulder, "You don't really believe all that about your... About McDuck's company do you?"

"No, I don't. But I need to hear it from Dewey's lips. Even if it wasn't him... and it wasn't him, I promise... it means someone is using McDuck Enterprises to fund crime." He looked over his shoulder at the violet-clad flapping terror. "Thanks for your help. I think I've got it from here."

"Now wait, Gadgets. If you haven't noticed, you're completely unarmed. If this does pan out to something bigger you're going to need help."

"You don't have to come with me. It's just my brother."

"You'll learn, kid. If being a superhero teaches you anything, it's that anyone can be a super villain under the wrong circumstances." She then took her hand from his shoulder and knocked an arrow, firing out a grapple. "You got a car?"

"No."

"Buy one. Cheap and inconspicuous. Used. Pay in cash and meet me out of costume in front of the Audubon Bay Bridge tomorrow at noon. Bring along any extra doodads you've got. We'll drive into Duckburg." She stood up on the raised lip of the rooftop. "Understand?"

After a pause, Louie turned and nodded, "Thanks."

"I just don't want you dying on my watch. See you then." And with that she swung away from the building and into the night.

***

The rooster ran through the streets towards a long stretch limo. He all but dove onto the back seat, yelling for the driver to peel out as he closed the door behind him. Alone now, with secondary _and_ primary sexual characteristics safe from maltreatment, he breathed out a sigh of relief.

Suddenly, there was a voice.

"Don't breathe yet, Steelbeak," said a voice from the other end of the limo, plunged in obscuring darkness. "What did you tell those kids?"

"A- are you from the company?"

"No." There was the sound of a gun cocking, "Worse."

***

The car was small, just a two-seater convertible in dingy red. In the lot, he had had his eye on another, more modern car in a brown when this car seemed to just jump out at him. The license plates had long since been pried off so he couldn't say for sure, but he could have sworn he had seen it before.

Under whatever spell of fancy or nostalgia, it had worn off once he had started driving off the lot. It ran like an amputee, and made a noise like an electric can-opener. Regardless, it was what he had paid for and therefore what he had to work with. He had parked it on the curb by the bridge entrance like Darkwing had specified. He stood by the driver's seat, leaning his tail on the door.

Soon enough, after an hour of waiting, a voice piped up from behind him, already seated in the car, "Shall we go?"

Louie jumped, almost running out into traffic, and turned to find a young, a very young goose sitting in the passenger side seat, wearing a very casual, almost tomboyish getup. Her hair was long and burning red, lazily tied back in a messy ponytail. Her eyes were disarmingly green and Louie found himself recognizing her for that feature alone.

"...Gosalyn Mallard?"

"Pleased to meet you. I don't suppose you might be heading towards Duckburg."

"Er. Yeah"

"You're Louie Duck, aren't you?" The girl, Gosalyn, smiled broadly, "You're a millionaire, ain't you?"

"Er. Yes." He took that moment to sit himself back in the driver's seat. "I suppose we've never met before, have we?"

"Nope. Never."

"Gotcha." He turned the key in the ignition. The car started up with a tortured oscillating creak. "How old are you anyway? Before... in my first impression you seemed at least old enough, but..."

"Are you worried about me, Louie? Me? The daughter of you-know-who? Believe me, even If I'm young I can take care of myself."

"I... I guess."

He shifted the stick shift and pulled onto the road, beginning their journey into Duckburg.

"So... Why aren't we..." He noticed her. "What are you doing?"

She simply placed her index finger to her bill and continued what she was doing, searching underneath the seat, the glove compartment, the back seat, under the dash; every conceivable hiding place. She then came up with a small device hidden underneath the driver's seat. It was small and black, and was obviously some kind of microphone. She easily chucked it behind her and into traffic, where it collided with another car's windshield and busted into a million pieces.

"We were bugged?" said Louie once the danger had passed.

"You're surprised? We went after a former secret agent and got away with it. I wouldn't be shocked if every car in that lot had a bug hidden somewhere."

This seemed to satisfy Louie as he drove along the bridge, the brief stretch of city that had bled across the bridge to continue the urban sprawl of the city becoming visible in the distance.

"So, why aren't we taking the jet?" said Louie, "seems faster."

"I'm a lousy pilot. Launchpad taught me how to fly it well enough, but I usually just use the remote-control mode as a distraction."

"So a gas gun, a jet, a motorcycle... I've always wondered, how did a suburban single father manage to get that kind of cash and training together?"

"Beats me, Gadgets. I came into the picture after he had been in the game for a while." She crossed her arms over her chest, which Louie couldn't help but notice was of modest but respectable proportion. Only the remembrance of the road ahead caused him to force his eyes back up and forward. "I don't even know if Drake Mallard was his real name, frankly. He barely ever used it, even at home. Who knows who he really was? It really didn't hit me until I was older that Drake Mallard was more of a mask than Darkwing Duck ever was."

"Of course, you didn't care. You wanted to be just like him, right?"

"Same with you and 'Unca' Scrooge' right?"

Louie smiled faintly. "You got it. Of course, he was ruthless, a cheapskate, obsessed with the bottom line, never stopped working even at home, and completely antisocial, but... well, He was larger than life. He had principles. Y'know?"

"More than you know," Gosalyn shook her head, "Our lives were ruined by 'larger than life' people."

The both of them laughed at the private joke between them, looking over at the other. As their eyes met, the laugh shrank to a giggle, then finally to nothing at all. They gazed for a while, until Gosalyn uttered a single word.

"Road."

Louie's eyes snapped forward quickly. Gosalyn's broke off and focused her gaze towards the passing suburbia dissolving into rural land, convincing herself that apartment buildings and trees were more interesting than the driver.

"So what if..." Gosalyn began, trying to change the subject to business, "If Dewey is guilty..."

"He isn't."

"But...?"

His eyes flickered towards her before gluing themselves back to the road, they seemed distressed, "But nothing. I know for a fact Dewey wouldn't do that. He's principled. He was the one of the three of us who wanted to be Uncle Scrooge the most. If he was misusing money like that... well it just doesn't fit."

"People change."

"Some," he said, bitterly, "Not him. He's too hard-headed."

She looked towards him briefly, before focusing back on the road to her right, "Bad blood?"

"The reason I left Duckburg in the first place. Huey had already left, and the two of us had a... disagreement over how we should run McDuck Enterprises."

"Disagreement?"

"Why am I explaining this to you? I don't want to talk about it."

"Wh-" She grunted. "Fine then."

Silence expanded the air around the car like a balloon fit to burst, and held all the way into Duckburg, with only a single stop for gas and snacks at a small rest stop outside of the city.


	4. Episode 4

Episode 4:

The sun was high on the day that the first bit of Dewey's future would come into his possession. His normally rather clipped and clean style seemed rushed and rumpled as if he had been in a hurry to dress that morning. His tie, a deep navy, stood out as particularly crooked. He stood by a limo, near the seaports just outside of Duckburg where Many McDuck Enterprises imports and exports floated side-by-side with several recreational sailboats and yachts. By his side eternally, Webigail stood, wearing a demure sundress, and a big hat with a big pink flower pinned to it. She looked over towards her boss. Neither of them particularly noticed or reacted when Webigail reached over and straightened Dewey's tie.

"Where is it?" said Dewey, checking his shiny, cheap watch, "It's coming by plane isn't it? It should have been here an hour ago."

Finishing with Dewey's tie, Webby spoke, "Be patient, Dewey. They're coming in all the way from India. It's bound to take a while."

Tapping his orange, webbed foot, Dewey let his arms cross in front of his chest. He didn't dare show it, but butterflies had taken up residence in his stomach, and his heart, inspired by the insectoid display right below it, was fluttering around his chest. He wanted these samples.

Suddenly, his ears heard the sound of propellers. His eyes followed the sound until he saw, in the distance, a yellow seaplane, one of those Conwing combinations passenger and cargo planes. His fluttering heart suddenly jumped up into his throat as the plane got closer.

"There it is!" He said a little too loudly, before running towards the docks where the sea plane would land.

Bouncing on the roiling water, the Sea duck's propellers began to slow, until the plane had come to a full stop parallel to a long dock. Dewey ran up to the pilot's door and stood, waiting for the pilot to exit the plane.

The pilot exited the plane, whistling. SLAP!

"Do you have any idea just how late you are?" yelled Dewey, "An hour, three minutes, and fifty-two seconds. I could have your job for this!"

"Good to see you again too, Dewey," said Huey, rubbing his feathered cheek, where the red imprint of his brother's hand was slowly fading.

Dewey was momentarily stunned. His eyes flickered over the body of his brother, perfectly identical to him in nearly every manner and yet different in a few key ways. Since Dewey had last seen him, he had bulked up a bit, and did not share the slight cheek-ruff Dewey was beginning to grow around his beak.

"Huey?"

"That's me."

And that was that. Dewey, taken over by his own emotions, threw his arms around his brother, giving a tight bear-hug. The two brothers smiled ear to ear as they took each other in.

"Huey! What are you doing here? I thought... The draft..."

"Strictly business, boss. You should have seen my boss blow a gasket. Mr. Kagan insisted I be the only one that come and give you this."

Breaking from his brother, he climbed back into his plane. As he disappeared into the back, Webigail walked up. Huey's head reappeared through the door, spotting the girl duck.

"Is that Webby?"

"Hi Huey!"

He jumped down and gave her another big hug, lifting her up and spinning her. Her hand shot up to keep her sun hat on her head. "Webby! I haven't seen you in ages!" He put her down and mutual smiles were passed around. "I hope you've been taking care of this cheapskate-in-training."

"I've tried."

Dewey, happy to see his estranged brother, was equally anxious to get at his brother's cargo. "Huey. Don't we have some business?"

"Oh yeah!" Huey reached into the Sea Duck, producing a thick, metallic suitcase he had left on the pilot's seat.

Not even waiting for his brother to give it over to him, Dewey snatched the case away from his brother. He knelt down on the wooden dock, going at the combination lock like a kid ripping up the biggest present on Christmas morning.

"Jeeze, boss, What is it?"

All was answered when Dewey finally got the lock opened. All three ducks shielded their eyes at the sudden glare of the sun bouncing off of the brilliant stones inside. Five nuggets of various sizes sat there in the case, glowing yellow in the bright blue day.

"Gold?" asked Huey.

"My first Gold mine. One I found using my own resources, paying my own workers. My own gold mine, found fair and square without having to share any brothers or uncles or anything." Dewey's beak was split in a delirious smile. "I've finally got a shot at making my own way."

Huey laughed out, "You're still on that kick? No wonder you look so sick." He turned to Webigail, "Don't you feed him?"

"I try. Sometimes he doesn't even take it."

Dewey closed the case with a slam and stood. "Dinner! Yes. Huey. I'll take you out to dinner. We'll celebrate."

"I don't know. I don't think I should stay in the states long." He thought for a moment.

"Come on. It's just a couple of hours and then you'll be back on your way." Dewey then handed the case over to Webigail, before pulling a small memo out of his pocket. "Ms. Vanderquack. If you could take care of this for me."

"What? But... But what about dinner with Huey?" she protested.

"Business first. You can join us later. First I need you to follow these instructions to. The. Letter. Take the limp. We can walk. Please also give Mr. Kagan a message that I will be unavailable for a few hours."

Webigail looked from Dewey, to the disappointed-looking Huey, and back to her boss, before nodding her head, "Yes, sir."

Dewey nodded and immediately turned back to his brother, as if Webigail had simply disappeared once he had given the order. Huey gave an apologetic look as she turned to walk back to the limousine.

"Dewey. What was that?"

Not hearing the accusing tone in his brother's voice, Dewey simply took Huey's arm and began to walk on towards the restaurants on the Duckburg boardwalk. "It was business, Huey. Simple, straightforward, business. Just like Uncle Scrooge would have liked it."

***

Let your mind's eye be taken over by pitch blackness. Off in the distance, cracks of light suggest the outline of a door, with shadows passing under as people walk past, going about their days. In the dark room there is figure, too shrouded in black to make out, huddled in the corner with knees held to chest.

The figure sat, day to day, counting his days by the disappearance of the crack of light, indicating that he is alone in his room, and in the building, a forgotten ghoul.

Suddenly, he heard the lock turn over in the door. He flinched, wrapping the rough brown blanket he had been given around himself tighter. As the shaft of light from the hall grew over the room, the figure in the corner shrank away from it, even the glare from the ground causing pain in his eyes, so unused to light.

Another figure, backlit and imposing, stood in the doorframe. "I thought you might like to know. I just got word. It's happening today."

The shrouded body did not move, even breathing too imperceptibly to see. In the darkness, eyes swiveled side-to-side, moving with the racing thoughts of their owner.

"That is all," Said the man in the door, "Good night."

The man then threw a small box on the floor, containing a half-eaten loaf of bread and a jug of water. The door then closed slowly, just as the figure dove desperately into the light for the life-saving contents of the box.

***

"Mangoes and Bananas are all well and good," began Huey, with a bill full of tender steak, "I even enjoy a good pineapple every now and again, but nothing beats a good rare steak."

Dewey pushed back his words on his brother's terrible eating habits with a glass of water. The rich and famous residents of the city of Duckburg looked over at the impolite Duck in the leather flight jacket eating with one of the richest ducks in the world with disdain. Dewey had to struggle not to hide his face behind his napkin.

"Huey," he said, "We're in the most expensive steakhouse in the city. At least try to act like you belong here."

Wielding his fork like an admonishing finger, Huey retorted, a few food chunks falling onto the white tablecloth, "Oh no! If I learned one thing from Uncle Scrooge it's that if you let yourself get changed by money, you don't deserve money in the first place."

Dewey rolled his eyes. "Fine, but there IS such a thing as common courtesy."

"You've changed."

"What?"

Huey swallowed his steak. "You've changed. You're different. I didn't want to say anything, but you look tired. You've got bags under your eyes and you seem thin. Not to mention you were absolutely terrible to Webby."

"Webi... Ms. Vanderquack is my personal assistant and housekeeper. It's her job to follow my directions."

"I would have liked for her to join us for dinner."

"Yes, well, I needed that done."

Huey's face still seemed amicable as he shoved another chunk of meat into his bill. "You're trying so hard."

"To do what, Huey? To be like Uncle Scrooge? And why not? He was a great man, and I think he'd approve of my taking over his business..." He crossed his arms over his side of the table, empty except for his glass of water. "...Unlike my two brothers that ran out at the first sign of..."

"Don't start the blame game, Dewey." He swallowed. "You know I had circumstances. I shouldn't even be IN this country. You can't blame me for not wanting to fight in a war I don't believe in."

"Uncle Donald didn't see it that way."

"Uncle Donald, rest his soul, was an utter tool."

"Don't you dare, Huey. Don't you dare talk about Donald like that. When mom died, that man raised us like his own kids for years."

"And then at the first sign of wartime in Korea he fobbed us off onto Uncle Scrooge. You can't think that kind of blind patriotism is at all a good thing, do you?"

"He was a career navy man. What would you expect him to do? He fought in World War 2, it was simpler back then." In their fight, the two of them had begun gesturing wildly. "And besides, living with Uncle Scrooge was one of the best things that ever happened to us. What was wrong with living with Uncle Scrooge?"

Huey grimaced. "Nothing was wrong with it, it's just we... I don't know how he could have abandoned us like that, especially after Mom..."

Dewey placed his cheek in his hand. "I know, Huey. I know. It wasn't nice of him, but... But we've got to respect him. It broke his heart to see you run off like you did. I think it might have led to him disappearing."

"You can't blame that one on me, Dewey."

"I wasn't... Oh..." With eyebrows scrunching together, Dewey gave a grunt. "I can't eat any more."

"You haven't even ordered anything."

"I'm not hungry."

"You've got more money than god. It doesn't do for people with more money than god to starve."

And thus there was silence, punctuated only by the chewing noises of Huey's voracious appetite. With a quiet swallow, and the clink of a knife cutting to the plate below the meat, another chunk of steak found its way into Huey's bill.

Sensing that a line had been crossed, Huey changed the subject, "So, How is Louie? Last I heard I was living in Saint Canard."

"He's fine."

A loud boom of a laugh answered Dewey's clipped answer, "Just fine, Dewey!? I'd say I'm doing better than that!"

Both duck's head swiveled around to behold Louie, being shown by a waiter to a table near to Huey and Dewey's. He was wearing a loud suit, a totally mod plaid jacket in green, topped by a suede, Olive-colored Fedora. The first few buttons of his shirt stood unbuttoned, revealing a gold chain within. Hanging by his arm was the beautiful hands of a young, beautiful goose, dressed in a close-fitting evening dress in deep purple, diamonds dripping from her neck and long-gloved arms. Her red hair stood atop her head, pinned into an up do by another diamond clip. Huey and Dewey stared at the sight of their brother with such arm candy, and all thought of their fight flew out the window.

"Well? Isn't anyone going to say hi?" Before anyone could say anything however, he snapped his fingers, "Garçon! Push our table together with my brothers'. We've got catching up to do!"

As the waiter went on, there was no more hesitation. Huey jumped up, grabbing Louie in another of his massive bear hugs. "Louie! I didn't think I'd get to see you! How the hell are you?"

Urk! "Just fine, Huey!" He was let down, and adjusted his clothes and hat. "Lorelai," He said, extending a hand suavely towards his pretty date, "I'd like you to meet my twin brothers. The one in pilot drag is Huey Duck, and the one who looks fifty years old twenty years too early is Dewey. Fellas." He wrapped his arm around the girl's thin waist, "This is Lorelai Loon."

"Charming," Said Dewey, who was slightly less excited about his brother's sudden appearance, "What are you doing here, Louie? I thought you were in Saint Canard throwing Scrooge's money in an incinerator somewhere."

"Ah, my brother, Dewey. Still living on bread and water I see. Hold the bread." He then laughed, and the loon girl laughed along.

All of them sat around the now double-sized table. Lorelai pulled out a long cigarette holder and lit one up. Huey began the conversation.

"So what've you been doing? Saint Canard treating you well? Haven't been shaken down by any super villains have you?"

"Ah, that superhero thing is a lot more boring than its cracked up to be. Something happens. A fella in tights jumps in, blusters on, and chases someone away. Half the time they don't even catch the bad guys."

Lorelai was all smiles, "That's just the new guys, Duckie. I hear that Darkwing Duck guy always gets his man."

There was a momentary flinch in Louie's expression, before he was back to his former self, "Isn't she just a kidder?"

"Seems you've changed too, Louie," Said Huey, "I don't remember you ever being this excitable."

"I've learned life, guys. All the money in the world doesn't mean squat if you don't do anything with it." He placed a dot on the sentence with a sly look towards Dewey. "Anyway, speaking of money, how's business, Dewey?"

"Just fine, Louie."

Huey chimed in, "He's struck gold!"

"Gold? Really? Well aren't you just the best little forty-niner who ever walked across the Yukon." He smiled, "S'pose you didn't need my help after all."

"Louie..."

"Sorry. Bygones and all that. You've done very well for yourself, even if you did drive me out."

Dewey nearly exploded, his bottled up feeling pouring out through his eyes and mouth, "I never...!" But just in time, he put the lid back on and was able to attain his calm demeanor, "You know as well as I do I never drove you out. You drove yourself out by being a wasteful, sloppy businessman."

"The claws come out, Lorelai. We make insults now," he said to his date, who was fascinated by the interplay between the three brothers, "Just because you refused to see McDuck Enterprises as anything other than a machine to create more money..."

"It is a Business, Louie. That is exactly what a business is. Spending money to create more money. If a business spends something he should expect a profitable return."

"Just because Uncle Scrooge wasn't the biggest fan of philanthropy doesn't mean we have to follow his example exactly," His eyes were deep set and one could see the serious expression behind the carefree façade, "He's already more than provided for us. Keeping so much of his money just for ourselves is just utter greed."

Huey cut in quickly, "Dewey! Louie! Both of you shut your traps right now."

They did, their imposing "older brother" had spoken.

"Quit it you two. I only have a few hours before I need to get back home. I don't want you two ruining... my..." He then froze, his eyes headlights of shock and fear.

"Wh-what?" said Louie, as he followed Huey's gaze.

There were two goons standing in front of the restaurant, speaking with the maitre d'. Both were large men, round-nosed dogs, in black suits and ties. While one spoke, the other scanned the room, his inscrutable eyes encased in a pair of opaque sunglasses.

"...Er... that reminds me. I promised Old Man Cloudkicker I'd be back at the Cape by... by tomorrow. I need to get going if I want to make it."

"What?" said Dewey, not seeing the fear in his brother's eyes, "but you just got here, I'm sure..."

"No," said Louie, smiling at his brother, "You go on. Have a nice flight."

Without another word, Huey began to bustle back towards the back room of the restaurant. The two men spotted him just as he exited and called out, "Stop!" before running through the dining floor, dodging tables and chairs and rich diners.

"Wha-?" said Dewey as he watched the G-men run, before it clicked into place, "He's in trouble, isn't he?"

"Yup," said Louie, "Should we help him?"

"I think so."

"Good," The three diners rose up out of their seats, "Tag along Lorelai?"

"Well, I..."

However, Lorelai was cut off by a series of loud bangs, like a hundred firecrackers taped together. Diners all around ducked down into their food and under their tables, recognizing the telltale sound of something being riddled with bullets. Louie and Lorelai's heads snapped towards the front, where the maitre d' was still somehow standing, his formerly rigid back now riddled with ugly uneven holes, dripping in blood. He collapsed to the floor, revealing to the room at large three men, beagles, dressed in Orange sweaters with numbered plaques attached to their fronts.

"This is a stick-up!" said the smallest of the three, "We want all of your jewelry and money in a nice little pile in the floor, and no funny business." He then waved a hand towards his two companions, "These are my brothers," first a tall, thin guy with greasy hair and an even greasier appearance, ogling all of the well-dressed ladies, "Boner Beagle," Then a large, insipid-looking fat man who was nonetheless strong enough to carry a large chain gun one-handed, "Ballast Beagle," And he finally pointed towards himself, the shortest and scrawniest of the three, "And I'm Braincase. We're the Beagle Boys, and this is _our_ town now."


	5. Episode 5

Episode 5:

"He's back here!"

There was a big commotion outside of the men's room, followed by Huey running in, before grabbing the trash can and wedging it under the doorknob. He then looked around the bathroom. It was clean and sterile, as does a highbrow establishment like that. It contained only a single toilet stall, with a high window lending the room a bit of the ever escaping twilight from outside.

Crash! The sound of a shoulder impacting the door caused Huey's mind to go into overdrive. Quickly, with no time to think, he grasped the napkin dispenser with his strong fingers and pulled. After a moment of strain, underscored by the battering on the door as well as the steady sound of people's voices, the movable top cover of the dispenser came away from the rest of the mechanism. Wielding the thick metal casing, Huey then climbed up on the sink nearest to the window. He swung, and with a tinkling crash, the window was open.

A moment later, the trashcan wedging the door closed was knocked out of place, spreading paper towels and assorted garbage all over the checkered tiles of the floor. The two men in black rushed in, guns in hand, just a moment too late. They fired on the white tail feathers as they disappeared from view through the window.

***

Hands up and with a large-caliber machine gun waving around on the other end of the room, Dewey, Louie, and Lorelai stood. Lorelai had already taken off her impressive diamond collection and added it to the large pile of treasure the Beagle boys had amassed in the center of the room, and the boys had, reluctantly, parted with the meager pocket change the two of them carried in their pockets.

Louie whispered to his two companions, so that only they could hear, "We don't have time for this. Huey is in trouble."

"But what can we do?" said Lorelai, her sensual demeanor quickly leaving her face and habits, "If we move, Bonehead over there is going to start taking potshots."

Dewey was paying more attention to the growing pile of money and jewels in the center of the room, mentally counting out the one dollar bill, eight pennies, two quarters, and three nickels he had added to the pile, "We should do what they tell us, Louie. They're serious."

Louie's face was grim, a sharp contrast with his carefree attitude earlier. "If we can set up a distraction, I could slip away and go help Huey... but... Would you be okay here, Dewey?"

"What are you talking about? How could you help Huey all alone?"

"Never mind," said Lorelai to Dewey. She then turned to Louie, "I'll keep Dewey safe. You go."

At this point, the three Beagle boys had begun to wander the room, terrorizing and searching the stragglers for jewels they may have missed. The swarthy Beagle known as "Boner" was coming towards the Duck's group. He had spotted Lorelai from across the room, it seems, and he was licking his palms and using the saliva to push back his already veritably dripping hair. He began to walk towards the goose, leading the charge with his overactive crotch. She smiled at him, and while he was distracted with her smile, very discreetly picked a fork up off of a nearby table.

"We-he-hell. There's lots of classy ladies around here but you, I say, are the classiest of all of em," said Boner, licking his lips as he walked and spoke, "Sorry to steals your classy jewels lady, but I gots to make a living, dig?"

Lorelai smiled, "Of course. Mr... Boner, was it? Sit. Please." She sat at a table herself and patted the chair next to her. "Why would you want to rob poor little me?"

Taking the hint, Boner smiled and undulated up towards the seat. "Don't take it personal baby. It's just business. When a man's got business even dames have gotta respect tha-aaAAAHAHHHHHHH!"

Boner jumped at least three feet into the air. The fork placed on the seat he had just sat on was positioned perfectly to give his namesake something to think about for the next few days. Dewey flinched at the sight of the fork sticking out of the Beagle's junk, and looked away. It was then he noticed that Louie had already somehow disappeared. He looked back towards the hopping Beagle, drawing the attention of everyone in the room, and noticed that Lorelai was also gone.

"Hey!" He said, beginning to sweat, thinking himself abandoned.

***

The rattle of a chain link fence was the soundtrack of the chase, as Huey climbed, jumped, and ducked around town, away from the posh city, towards the boardwalk and, hopefully, eventually, the Sea Duck, and freedom. As he ran up an alley towards the coast, he tipped over a metal trash can, spilling the foul smelling contents all over the mouth of the alley. As he ran on, he could hear the can be pushed out of the way again by his pursuers.

He approached a set of stairs leading down to the Boardwalks, but skipped them, opting instead to slide down the slick guardrail on his white tail. He winced from the friction, but was thankful for the speed. Hitting the ground running, the duck ran on to his left, towards the docks, his webbed feet slapping up and down on the wooden boards. He looked behind himself, and found that he had momentarily eluded the two men.

With his eyes otherwise occupied, however, he couldn't stop from smashing right into a hotdog cart. Steamed hotdogs and buns flew everywhere as the vendor screamed at the clumsy duck in a squiggly language he couldn't quite identify.

"Sorry!" he called out as he stood. However, the slippery hot dogs underfoot tripped him up, causing him to fall to the boards once again. He rolled over, trying to get a good look at the direction the two men were coming from. He could see them coming, guns drawn. The vendor, seeing the guns, decided that this wasn't worth a hotdog cart and fled.

"Stop!" Said the leftmost man, despite the fact that Huey had already stopped.

Huey raised his hands, trying a smile, "Well, fellas. What brings you out here?"

"Huey Duck. The government wants to talk with y-urk!"

The right most man was suddenly a tall tree in the wood, making a long, creaking sigh as he fell. The left man turned just in time to catch a large, dented pipe in the face, wielded by a shadowy figure. Dazed, he fell atop his partner. Both guns were quickly picked up by the stranger, and thrown into the water under the boardwalk.

"W-who?"

As if on cue, the gradually receding twilight was cut as a streetlamp up above switched on. The green domino mask was what he saw first, then the long green cape, wrapped around the lithe body. The masked face rose as the figure dropped the pipe on the ground.

"Are you alright, citizen?"

"Hi Louie."

Losing his composure immediately, the Green Phantom gave an aggravated growl, "Oh come ON! What's the point of a costume if nobody gets fooled? How did you know?"

"We're identical, Louie. A little tiny mask isn't going to hide that. Seriously, it's like looking in a green-tinted mirror."

Rolling his eyes, Louie gave a sigh. "Fine. Come on. We're getting you out of here."

"Fine with me."

With no more words, the two figures sprinted on towards the Sea Duck.

***

"Well, Except for that little... distraction," began Braincase Beagle with a sideways glare towards his brother Boner, slumped over Ballast's huge doughy shoulder with an icepack strapped over his unmentionables, "It was a lovely time we all had with the cream dee lay Cream of Duckburg high society. So long suckers!"

The two able Beagles then turned towards the exit, huge sacks full of loot, their dazed brother, and the huge machine gun slung over their shoulders. They began to run off towards the exit at a good clip. Dewey felt an urge inside as he saw the orange backs of one of his family's oldest enemies. Somehow, someway, there must be something he could do, not just for that $1.73, but for something else. Something speaking to the baser nature of the Duck family and the McDuck clan.

And also, $1.73. That's bus fare for a whole week, and a few bits of penny candy besides. He took a single tentative step towards the fleeing beagles, intending o catch up to them and... what, exactly? Account them to death? His mind raced, instincts crashing up against hang-ups, creating a roiling sea of conflict behind the Duck's artificially calm façade.

He was about to call out, when suddenly, the doors slammed shut in front of the fleeing thieves, trapping them momentarily inside. Then, from within the Restaurant, a great billowing cloud of smoke issued forth. For a moment, all inside were blinded by white-grey smoke. There was then a sound of rustling.

"I am the terror that flaps in the night!" said the voice, below the sound of billowing capes, "I am the bars that make up your jail cell."

There were a few thick impacts of fists on flesh. Screams and grunts issued forth in between the socks and biffs. Suddenly, the sound of gunfire issued forth, to the screams of the high-society ladies. Huey ran forward, the silhouette becoming more and more solid as the smoke cleared. He could see Ballast Beagle, firing his minigun in every direction, striking walls, doors, tables, and abandoned food. With a great leap, Dewey jumped up onto the huge Beagle's shoulders, grasping him around the neck with his arms.

"Dewey?"

While riding the bucking beagle, he could see snippets of his savior. Purple, red, purple, White feathers.

"Lorelai? Run!"

"Not my name, but thanks for the diversion."

Twang! It sounded like a bow and arrow. In an instant, Ballast began to slow down, before stopping altogether, falling forward onto his two companions, causing a large, anguished groan.

His world spinning, Dewey slowly stood, looking up at who he thought was Lorelai Loon. Instead, he saw the wide-brimmed hat, the cloak, the double-breasted suit, the mask.

"Zorro?"

"Close enough," said Darkwing Duck, "Don't worry about him. I gave him a sleepy-shot. Come on. Louie sent me."

She reached out her hand, which Dewey flinched away from.

"Wait!" he yelled, before he began digging in the sack, fishing out one dollar, eight pennies, two quarters, and three nickels exactly. "Now I'm ready!"

The two of them ran out into the city streets, and instantly regretted it. There was a pervasive smell of gunpowder and smoke, and the dusk sky was dyed yellow and orange near the buildings, and black high above, with the telltale signs of fire. Dewey's eyes shot all around him, there were people running in every direction, some away from some unknown disaster, and a few, in tell-tale Orange sweaters, towards further mischief. Their ears were assaulted with gunfire, screaming, rioting in the streets. The stinging tang of teargas in the air signaled that the police had been here and tried to get things under control, but there was nothing but a few discarded helmets around.

"What's going on?" asked Darkwing, "You Duckburgies sure know how to throw a party."

"They were serious. They said... They said they 'own this town.' It's finally happened. The Beagle Boys have taken over Duckburg."

Raising her hands towards the heavens, Darkwing answered, "That's just great. What now?"

"Killmotor hill. My Uncle's money bin is the safest place in Duckburg. If we can get there..."

"Say no more." She fired a grappling arrow towards a distant roof.

Dewey found a slender arm wrapped around his waist. "So you say you know my brother?"

"Not well," Said Darkwing, "In all honesty, we've barely just met."

And with that, they were off, up to the rooftops, and towards the stronghold at Killmotor hill.

***

"Beagle boys?"

The Green Phantom and Huey Duck were hiding behind two barrels of what smelled like pickled fish, observing the strange sight of a team of Beagle Boys, mostly indistinguishable except for the numbers adorning their chests, but with a few oddballs here and there. There were about six of them surrounding the docks, but with an obvious focus on the yellow custom Conwing L16 that made up Huey's livelihood.

"Yes. They attacked just as you left. But what are they doing here?"

"Looks like they're burning down the city. Hundreds of them. Ma Beagle must have been busy."

Huey grimaced, "Ugh. I think with that brain. I don't need anything like that mental image taking up space."

Louie ignored this comment, "You can't escape in your plane now."

"Then what are we going to do?"

***

"Same thing my Uncle always used to do in these situations," Said Dewey, as he wielded a small hammer to break a pane of glass. He then reached into a glass case, withdrawing a long, wide-nosed antique musket, and a bag of ammunition. "We stand our ground."

The main office in the bin was in full battle positions. Close Circuit camera images were emblazoned all over the desk's many television cameras. Alarms and sirens went off every now and then, to which Dewey would calmly press a few buttons on a console, causing strange mechanical noises to sound out outside, or he would simply point the end of his musket out the window and fire.

For her part, Darkwing was taking it well. She was used to such gadgets and future stuffs from her father's hideaway, and found that Scrooge McDuck and Drake Mallard ordered much of their equipment from the same manufacturers.

"So this is the famous Money Bin," She said, staring at the open safe door, where the cavernous vault stood empty, "Where's the money?"

"Banks. We each got one cubic acre of money from Uncle Scrooge's vault to do with as we pleased." Bang! The musket rang out, throwing out its acrid smell as it signaled the end of the line for a would-be invader.

"Makes sense." Suddenly, an alarm. "We've got someone past the first lockdown point."

"The piranha tank will take care of them."

"Not this time... They're past it. They're past the acid bath too."

Dewey rushed over to the instruments, reading off of them, "How is that possible? They're past the laser hallway... AND the giant mousetrap."

"And the canon-hall. Guillotine room. Jaguar pit! We've got company!"

Darkwing and Dewey both took up their positions around the door, Dewey with his musket, sweat running off of his slick feathers, Darkwing with her bow pulled taut with a simple, deadly arrow knocked into it.

"Here they come." Said Dewey as a single beep sounded out.

The door to the office began to open, all sixteen lock-bolts opening easily. In a slow creak, the rusty hinges revealed two figures standing in the hall.

"Duck!" one of them yelled, before both threw themselves to the ground. A musket ball and arrow flew over their heads.

The other voice called out, waving his arms from the floor, "It's us!" He crawled into the light, revealing himself to be Huey.

"Huey!" called Dewey, "You're all right!"

The other figure stood, closing the door and locking all sixteen bolts behind him with a practiced ease.

"Who's that?" blurted out Dewey as the Green-clad superhero turned around, "Where's Louie?"

Huey blinked, "You mean... you don't..." He looked over at Louie, who looked very pleased with himself. Huey shrugged. "Just another hero." He then let his eyes wander over to Darkwing Duck, "Must be a convention in town."

"Never mind that," Said Louie, "We need to get out of here."

"But Killmotor hill is the safest place in Duckburg," argued Dewey.

"Not get out of the money Bin, Get out of the city. This is no mere crime wave. I can feel it. Something big is happening. We need to escape before we get caught up in it."

"Leave... Leave Duckburg? But..."

Louie's hands were at the lapels of Dewey's suit, "Listen. Duckburg is finished. The Beagles have torn it up. It's theirs now, but if we can escape, we can get it back from them later, but if we get killed here, it's over, you understand?" He gave Dewey a shake. "The bin may be safe for a while, but those Beagles... there's hundreds of them, thousands. You should see the way the streets are teeming with them. They'll get in eventually, climbing up on each other's backs to get at you, the richest duck in town, and what would happen to McDuck Enterprises then? I can't let that happen."

"Who ARE you!?"

"Are you thick? Are you an idiot or something? I'm your Goddamn br..." He then saw Huey and Darkwing shaking their heads. He really doesn't know. "I... I'm the Goddamn Green Phantom, that's who I am. Saint Canard's newest crime-fighter, and I'm the guy that's going to save your life, whether you like it or not. Huey? DW? We're leaving."

He then punched Dewey in the gut, causing him to double over in pain. Bent over, the duck was easy to then pick up and carry him off out the door, still clutching the musket in his unconscious fingers.

Darkwing took a moment to address Huey, "You guys really take your sibling rivalry seriously, don't you?"

"No. This is a more recent thing. C'mon. Don't want him gut-punching you."

"Woe to he that tries."

They followed.

***

Dewey woke up a few minutes later, sitting in a strangely familiar rumble seat of a red convertible.

"Unca Donald. Stop the car. I feel sick."

"No Uncle Donald here, Dewey Duck," said the voice of his red-clad brother, "Wake up."

"Wha-?" He opened his eyes. The four of them were crammed into the tiny car, with those two strange superheroes in the front seats. He and Huey were scrunched into the small rumble seat in the back. "This is a 1934 Belchfire Runabout. Where did you get it? I've been looking for one like it forever!"

Huey rolled his eyes, "The city is burning down around our ears and you notice the crappy car. Can't this heap go faster, Phantom?"

"It's floored all the way, Huey."

Dewey took a moment to look around. The city was a wreck. Nearly every window was broken, and several small fires had broken out in garbage cans. Behind them were a few Beagles chasing the little car on foot, and in front...

"Look out!" cried Darkwing too late, just as a Beagle boy was thrown under the car. All four riders was jostled as the body was crushed under the quick-moving wheels.

Dewey was the first to recover from the shock, "So, where are we heading?"

"I hit someone!"

"Yeah. One of the people trying to kill us. Where are we heading?"

Huey picked up the slack, "The Sea Duck. We'll fly out of here."

"Fine."

The Boardwalk was near, and was getting nearer.

"Hold on!"

And suddenly it was very close indeed. The car had gone over a long stone staircase, and the bumps were juggling the four riders around. With a final impact, the front bumper slapped into the ground, kicking up sparks, before the car was on the wooden boards of the Boardwalk, and nearly home free.

"What about the guards?" asked Huey.

But Dewey was already filling the musket with gunpowder and packing down the large bullet, "Just keep driving towards the plane. Darkwing?"

"Got you loud and clear."

Louie, emboldened by Gosalyn's endorsement in the plan, stepped on the gas as hard as he could. The car slammed into the pickled fish barrels, sending them into the sea, and turning the heads of several of the Beagles standing guard. The two closest were suddenly out of commission, one with a musket hole tearing through his face, sending white chunks of what could reliably be called teeth through the back of his neck, the other shot in the arm much less gruesomely with one of DW's arrows coated in strong sedative, causing him to quickly slump over, asleep. The remaining four Beagles began to swarm towards the car, even as it moved towards them at a fast speed.

"We'll never shoot them all!"

"Hit the brakes!" Yelled Huey.

"What!?"

"Do it!"

He did, the brakes were hit. Huey, who had been crouched, standing on the rumble seat like a coiled spring, leaped towards the four beagle boys, a whirlwind of fists and legs, using the velocity gained from the car's sudden stop to knock the four crooks off guard. Whack. One was caught in the jaw by a fist, made hard from bar rumbles the world over and fingers made clever by the joy of flight. Another was kicked in the stomach. Another had an elbow planted in his leg, with a sickening crack. The last one, a little behind his fellows, was jumped upon by the insane duck like the victim of a panther attack. Red faced and lost in the berserk rage of it, Huey beat the last beagle within an inch of his life before standing.

He smiled amiably, "All clear. Let's go." He then walked up to the cargo entrance of the yellow plane and lowered down the ramp, gesturing for Louie to drive the car right up into it.

Louie didn't move right away, his eyes were too wide for him to move. He was too busy thinking thoughts like 'Why can't I do things like that? I'm supposed to be the superhero here.' He then floored the pedals, and drove the car up into the Seaduck.

Huey walked in after and prepared to close the back, when Dewey suddenly cried out.

"Webigail! We forgot Webigail!"

"I hate to say this, boss," Said Huey, still breathing hard from his earlier exertions, "But I think that's the least of out problems."

He pointed out to a small army of Beagle boys swarming up like a George Romero nightmare.

Louie cried, jumping out of the car, "We need to get out of here!"

"No! Webigail... We have to wait!"

"I'm glad to see you care, Dewey, but I doubt she could get all the way here from... From..." But Huey was struck speechless.

A tall armored car was speeding towards the docks, cutting a wide swath through the crowd of orange. A large, slightly tattered hat was being waved out the side window.

"Warm up the engines, Huey!"

"You got it, Boss!" He then ran to the front. Soon enough, the propellers began to spin.

The armored car stopped roughly ahead of the crowd of criminals, and Webigail jumped out. Her sundress was ripped up the side to allow her to run, and her high heeled shoes were slung over her shoulder. In her other hand, she held the same case she had left Dewey with. She ran, pumping her legs and breathing hard. Dewey ran to the edge of the ramp and held out his hand.

"DEWEY!" She screamed as the plane began moving forwards.

"Huey! Stop! Webigail's not on yet!"

But he couldn't hear. Dewey shook his head and turned back towards Webby. She was holding out the case for Dewey to take.

"Take it!"

He reached, his hand able to just reach towards the loop of the case. There was a moment of uncertainly, before his hand shot out and grabbed Webigail's wrist roughly just as the plane moved off of the dock and over the water, causing Webby to hang over the edge of the ramp, her shoes falling into the drink. The Green Phantom ran up, grabbing her other arm. Together the two brothers pulled Webby up and to a safe distance from the ramp, just as DW operated the closing mechanism, and Huey lifted the plane off of the ground.

The next thing they knew, Dewey and Webby were in each other's arms, embracing, breathing hard, just trying to ride out the sudden rush of adrenalin from their near-death experience.

"...Dewey... I... I got the..."

"I... I know... Thank you, Ms. Vanderquack..."

***

A little later, after everyone had calmed down, and the glowing aura of Duckburg disappeared over the horizon, The Green Phantom was ranting, up on his feet even as the others were securely fastened to the ratty old seats in the passenger area.

"...That was WAY too organized to just be a random riot."

"These are the Beagle boys, Phantom," Said Webigail, playing along with Dewey's apparent ignorance of his brother's identity, "They've done things like this before."

"But not this huge, or organized, and NEVER on their own. That was a war down there, Webby. Someone waged a war on Duckburg."

"Perhaps it's linked with that little problem we noticed with McDuck's finances," said Darkwing.

Dewey's face perked up, "Problem? Finances?"

"Tell him, Gadgets."

The Green Phantom nodded, "It's the reason we were in Duckburg in the first place. McDuck Enterprises has been filtering money through the Saint Canard underworld."

"What!? Impossible!"

"Call it what you like, but that's what's happened, and if my hunch is right it has something to do with this crime wave."

"It could be a coincidence."

"Coincidences don't exist for us Ducks. Somehow, the BBs and the Six hundred thou are related."

"SIX HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS!?"

Louie briefly shrank back, recognizing the texture of this rage, "Er... give or take."

Louie could have sworn that smoke poured out of Dewey's nostrils, "Those... I... Th... I'll kill them!"

"Slow down, Mr. Moneybags," said Darkwing, "We aren't killing anyone until we figure out who it was."

"And how do we do that?" asked Dewey, anxious.

"We don't. That's what we were in Duckburg to do, and it seems Duckburg is off-limits."

They all sighed. Louie sat, and buckled in, letting the hum of the engines, now a mere background noise, rumble through him.

As if wishing to diffuse the situation, Webby began to speak, "Dewey. What about...?"

Dewey instantly perked up, "I completely forgot!" He then reached under his seat, opening the case and pulling out two small packages."

"What's that?" asked Louie.

In answer, Dewey merely unwrapped the larger package, revealing a small glass dome, like a snow globe, with a single, polished dime sitting in the center, with the inscribed year of 1877.

Louie was suddenly in awe, "Is... Is that...?"

"His number one," said Webby, in equal awe.

"I can't believe you saved it!"

"I had to. He left it to me. He wanted me to spend it. He was gone, and his wealth would go with him, off to be redistributed, but... But I couldn't bring myself to spend it. We've spent too much time and resources protecting it from robbers and crooks to just let it go." He rubbed the glass dome with his hand.

Darkwing, who barely knew the lore around the so-called 'Lucky dime' was anxious to get on with it, "And in the other package?"

Dewey nodded, placing the Lucky dime's case gently in Webigail's lap, before slowly unwrapping the other package.

"...no..." said the Green Phantom, "...You didn't!"

"I did. I had Webby sell one of my gold samples for as much as she could get for it." He then held up another small, clear case, in which was held a small coin. "But had her deduct this first."

"Uh... another dime?" asked Darkwing Duck, unimpressed from stem to stern.

"Yes. Independent from my brothers, from my uncles, from crooks or co-workers or leeches." He held the case up reverentially, as if it was a precious stone. "The start of my fortune. My first dime. My number one dime."


	6. Episode 6

Episode 6:

Rio de Janeiro, the Marvelous City. Seated on the water and bathed in sunlight, this bronzed, charmed city lay under the watchful gaze of Christ the Redeemer, awaiting those who would come to her and partake of the communion of dance and ___cachaça_ running through her veins. As the Sea Duck came to a halt in the port of Rio, several tourists sat and gawked at the antique plane.

The passengers of the plane didn't even wait for the rotors to come to a complete stop before they stepped out onto the Port. The five ducks and other waterfowl, two of which were wearing heavy costumes obviously not ideal for such a climate, stretched tired muscles and breathed in the heavy air.

"Well, Huey?" Asked Dewey, used to the much more temperate Calisota weather and having a bit of difficulty breathing, "Rio. Why are we here again?"

"Because, Dewey, the Sea Duck needs refueling, and I know a guy who can put us up while we wait."

Webigail picked at her ripped and filthy sundress, feeling self-conscious around all the bronzed goddesses heading to and from the beaches and decks of cruise ships, "Good a place as any."

"As long as there's a phone," said Dewey, the sunny day doing nothing to soften his hard expression, "I've still got McDuck Enterprises to manage, and with that six thousand dollar hole..."

"Of course. Even when you're forced to take a vacation in Rio, God forbid you let your subordinates handle the company for a little while. Right Green Phantom."

But nobody answered. Darkwing Duck and the Green Phantom had managed to slip away unnoticed.

"Well, that's just rude," said Huey, "Where do you think they went?"

"Who cares?" snapped Dewey, "Where's this friend of yours? Do they have an air conditioner?"

***

"Are you sure about this?" asked Louie, now back into his civilian outfit of Plaid and suede, "I could come with you. Help you out."

"No," answered Gosalyn, having changed into her own secret identity, standing with a single small case in front of an airport, "You've got to take care of your brothers. They need you more than I do." She smiled. "I've got more than enough friends I can call on to clean up Duckburg. Just cool your heels around here. If you're right and your brother is being targeted, you'll be in the perfect position to keep him safe."

"I'll come back as soon as I can." Louie tried a sheepish smile and began to sweat a bit, and not from the heat. "As soon as the heat is off I'll fly back to Duckburg. Once this is all over we can head back to Saint Canard, and..."

"What's all this 'we' business? It's just a team-up. It's not like we're partners or anything."

"Ah, well, I guess not."

"Now remember your cover story," began Darkwing, changing the subject and pulling a slip of paper out of her pockets, "Darkwing Duck called you up, and you came right down to Brazil as soon as you could. Your ticket, sir."

She handed the paper ticket to Louie, and their hands touched for just a moment. Like an electric shock had coursed through her, Gosalyn drew back her hand, suddenly averting her eyes from looking at Louie. At her reaction, Louie blushed.

"I..." he stammered, "I'll go... Have a good flight....?"

The end of his sentence raised up quickly as Gosalyn began to step forward towards him. Her face hovered close to his, and he could smell her sweet breath flowing past his bill. He dared not move. After a moment of indecision, Gosalyn began to lean forward.

"Wait!" said Louie. "W-wait."

"What? What's wrong?"

"You're so young, I..."

"I'm old enough."

"I... You know I... I'm flattered, but... I'll see you in Duckburg, okay?"

After a pause, a disappointed Gosalyn sighed, and without a word, turned and left.

Moments later, as Gosalyn's queue disappeared into the airplane, Louie was mentally kicking himself. His hand snaked up to his bill, where it rested on top, wiping off some of the sweat that had run down onto it.

"Some millionaire playboy I turned out to be," he said, as he too turned and left.

***

Near the city center, three ducks, one in blue, one in red, and one in pink walked, at the insistence of the blue one, towards a hotel. A few passersby may have seen the three ducks get approached by a fourth Duck, in green, who was greatly relieved to see the other three alive and well. The Red and Pink ducks were all hugs and smiles, but when it came time for the Blue duck's turn, there was only a big slap, apparently for getting himself lost, followed by several unprintable words, and then a rough, worried hug.

Witnesses to this exchange quickly forgot about those crazy Americano touristas as soon as the four ducks walked inside the small Inn.

***

"**Boa vinda**! Welcome! American, sim?" Cried the diminutive crow standing behind the front counter, wearing a straw hat that had apparently had the top punched open from the inside, "What I can do for you?"

The main hall was thick with plants and bushes, with cracked stucco walls painted in summery colors. The place had an air of history about it, the sense that although it was a bit on the run-down side, it wasn't unpleasant, and that staying there implied sleeping in some historical Ritz of days gone past.

Huey stepped forward and said something to the Crow in what to Louie and Dewey sounded like flawless Portuguese.

"You want to have my children?" asked the crow, taken aback slightly, "I am sorry senhor. I do not swang that way."

"Er. No. I mean..." Huey blushed as fumbled for the right words. Louie couldn't help but laugh, attracting the ire of his brother. "You shut up!" He turned back to the crow, "I want to see the boss. Is he in?"

"In what?"

"In... huh?"

"In what, senhor? What would he be in?"

"No. I mean is he here today?"

"Oh! Is he IN!" The crow laughed, "English turns-of-phrases will be the death of me yet."

In rapid-fire Portuguese, the Crow rattled off a bark towards the back rooms, and was answered by another call, which sounded slightly angry. The Crow would have blushed if his feathers could have shown through.

"He will be right up, Senhor." He then quickly vacated, apparently not keen on sticking around for whatever was coming.

Left in a thick silence, the four Calisotans stood awkwardly before the front desk, waiting for something to happen. Soon enough, there were footsteps coming towards the beaded curtain that partitioned the back room off from the main hall. The curtain was drawn aside slowly by a delicate peach-colored hand, revealing the scantily-clad body of a female parrot, who was absentmindedly snapping her bra back on in the front with her off hand. Huey, Dewey, and Louie all stood up rail straight, their eyes tracing paths around the slight woman's scanty curves.

"Oh! Pesaroso! I sorry!" As the girl spoke, she skittered on towards the staircase towards the second floor, "Sorry. I So so sorry."She went on like that until she had reached the stairs, which she rushed up, using her arms covering up her bare skin.

As they followed the woman up the stairs with their gazes, they could suddenly hear the beads clink and clatter apart.

"Sim? What can I do for you gentlemen?" Said an irate voice of the figure, with a green-feathered hand, as he entered through the curtain. The first impression was of the straw boater atop the faded green head. Next, the handsome parrot beak, framed by an attractive face of lines and experiences, although the expression it wore was presently one of annoyance and not sagacity. Next, the slick suit, a sort of creamy yellow, and accented with a black bowtie. The suit was very old-fashioned, and the buttons were also uniformly attached to the wrong holes. "Hurry, hurry. The daylight burns."

"Mr. Carioca?" asked Huey tentatively, " I don't know if you remember us..."

"Get on, get on. You wan'ned a room, yes? How many you like?" His voice was a creamy as his suit, and even under the veneer of barely concealed contempt for the tourists who dared interrupt his afternoon activities, he projected an atmosphere of smooth chillness. Almost without seeming to think about it, he retrieved a thick cigar from under the counter, along with a box of matches, and began the process of lighting it up.

"Mr. Carioca. José Carioca. I'm Huey Duck, and these are my brothers, Dewey and Louie, and this is our friend, Webby. We met very briefly in Mexico..."

"I meet many people in Mexico..."

"...With our uncle Donald."

"Donal'... Donal'..." He shook his head, "I do not..." But then his face split open. All of the wrinkles etched handsomely upon his face twisted and transformed, revealing a sincere smile. "Donal' Duck!? O Pato Donal'? Donal' Duck!" His fingers were then at his buttons, straightening them out. His smoldering stogie was left to hang from his beak, being spoken around without the least bit of difficulty.

He began to speak quickly and precisely in Portuguese, rolling his 'r's and crying out on joy. While speaking he took each duck by the face and gave a little personalized greeting to each one. Huey, who knew at least enough of the language to get by, was absolutely stumped after the third sentence, and soon joined his brothers in the blank stare and vague nod in answer to the parrot's gusto. He took the cigar out of his mouth and began to gesture with it as he spoke, flicking ashes onto the floor behind the counter, speaking on some topic that had nothing to do with what came before and will have no bearing on what comes after. He took a breath. "Or, as they say in the states: So happy to see you!"

The three ducks couldn't help but smile at the sincerity, if not the intelligibility, of the words and gestures given to them by this friend of their Uncle.

" You must be his little ones! I remem'er you. Such cute little ducks. Oh my word," He smote his forehead, "You grow so big! An' so grown up. Please do not tell me how old you are, or you will cause an old man to die of old age prematurely."

The parrot grabbed something from behind the counter, an umbrella, which he used as a cane to assist him in his very pronounced limp as he walked around to the front and towards a set of plush chairs in the lobby, "Come! Come. Sit. Talk. What brings you to The Magnificent City?"

"It's a long story," said Louie.

But Webigail was still confused, "I'm sorry, but how do you...? You knew Donald?"

"Knew, Senhorita? You could say I knew him quite well, although to my remembrance I think we only met... oh..." He did some quick calculations in his head, "Five times or so. But oh what times those were. It seems wherever your Oncle Donal' went adventure seemed to follow; Adventure, Senhoritas, things your little Duck ears should not hear so early. His adventures was the reason I could retire and open this little hotel."

Eventually, they all were sat down, with José insisting on seating himself after his guests despite the difficulty in moving his stiff leg.

"There was some trouble in Duckburg," said Dewey, frankly, "We had to get out of there."

"No. Not that Beagly Boy invasion thing, was it? I hear on the radio. Terrible disaster."

"We were able to escape, but we didn't manage to grab anything," said Huey, "I don't suppose we could stay here. We can certainly pay..."

"No! No! No pay! You stay here my treat. My guests. Donal' was a good frien' and I do a service to his little ones." He paused, taking a drag of his cigar, "Where is Donal' these days?"

The three boys looked to each other slowly. Louie was the one to speak, "He, er... He disappeared a little after Uncle Scrooge died. Nobody ever found out where he went. We've all sort of given up hope."

"Oh, ohh." His eyes sank to the floor. "Tha's too bad. No good at all."

Seeing the expressions on Dewey and Huey's faces, Webigail, ever the tactful, looked around and decided to change the subject, "These girls. In this picture." She pointed out three lovely, yet almost identical young women standing in front of an airport in a black and white photograph hanging on the wall. "They resemble you, Mr. Carioca."

At Webby's words, he coughed, "José, Please, Senhorita, or if you prefer, Zé, or Joe as your Oncle used to call me." He sighed, and seemed to have a sliver of melancholy stick in his gregarious airs, "They are my, er... My cousin's daughters." He pointed to the first, "Maria Jandaia, of my cousin Zé Jandaia from Ceara." He pointed to the next one, who had an arm over her cousin's shoulder, "Rosalina Pampeiro, of my cousin Zé Pampeiro, from Rio Grande do Sul." And he moved onto the last of the girls, who was looking slightly off-camera, "Last is Amalia Paulista, of Zé Paulista, from Sao Paulo. All three are very beautiful and I'm... sorry I don't get to see them more often." His eyes began to glaze over a bit, "I remember their mothers very well."

"Very strong family resemblance," commented Webigail.

"Er... The Carioca Jeans, they do fit so well. But enough talk of family. Please. I shall show you to your rooms." He rose with a slight creak, and leaned over onto his umbrella, before extending an elbow towards Webigail, "Come, Senhorita, tomorrow I shall show you and your friends the town, and the land of the samba."

"That would be lovely."

As Webby and José walked off towards the staircase, Dewey seemed to smolder like the one of the Parrot's cigars, "Right. Let's go see our rooms." He then marched quickly towards the stairs, "Can't let them get ahead of us."

As their brother walked off, Louie and Huey shrugged their shoulders. Huey followed Dewey up the stairs, but Louie hung back for a moment, mostly on a whim, but also because of a desire to not have to stand so close to Dewey.

He let his eyes sweep the room slowly. He hadn't noticed before, but in the shadows of the lobby underneath the thick potted plant life, there were several benches hidden away, from which you could hear a strange whispering. Curious, Louie walked towards the bench.

At the sound of his footsteps, the whispering stopped and two round-nosed dogs reached their heads around the plants to stare at the green-clad American.

"Oh. Uh." Their stares were threatening, and Louie was sure that he did not want to be receiving their ire any more than necessary, "Is that the time?" He said, faking wearing a watch, "I'd better get up to bed. I am tired."

He then pivoted on one foot towards the staircase and began to walk up, intending to catch up with the rest of his party.

But who were they, and what were they doing in Zé's hotel, he thought, I've got a bad feeling.

He smiled, reaching into his pocket where his costume was hidden away in a small capsule from Gearloose Magazine that can fold cloth down to 1/1000th of its regular size. Bad feelings call for a little investigation.

***

That night, under the cover of the warm carioca nightfall, the Green Phantom came out to play. First, the roof of the hotel, to catch the night air, listen to the rhythm of the city, so different from his home in Saint Canard, and a far cry from his former home in Duckburg. The faint sounds of the streets, still alive with activity, emboldened Louie, allowing him to disappear behind the mask, to become the Green Phantom.

Within then, to prowl the hallways of the Hotel Carioca. Through the third floor, empty of both boarder and customer, dark and forbidding, then through the second floor, where his companions slept safe in their beds, and the single maid of the establishment, now properly dressed in her demure black uniform, a far cry from the bra and panties from before, floated down the hall with a bundle of bed sheets for the wash. Then through the first floor, the empty, ghostly lobby, where the crow at the desk was catching forty winks of dreamtime. Through the beaded curtain carefully, making sure not to let the beads clack together.

The back room was bare and sad when compared to the friendly, lush front room. It had a single, well used couch for employees, and a tiny kitchen off to the side woefully unprepared to serve more than a few guests at a time. The fact that the kitchen was where this particular couch lived more than put Louie off of his breakfast in the morning.

But no matter, down now, past a small, handwritten sign denoting that it was the Hotel's "Adega de vinho" and that there would be "¡No amostra gratis!" Down below that there was a smaller note in a loopy, elegant handwriting that read, "Eu significo-o, Nestor."

Past the sign, the cellar stairs were ill lit and creaky. It took all of Louie's restraint to walk down the stairs without causing any sound, especially since he left his "sneaky-sole slippers" in Duckburg. And he had special ordered them to be shaped like little ghosts too.

As he neared the bottom of the stair, he could hear low, gruff voices speaking low to each other in Portuguese, as well as another, lighter, smoother voice speaking while terrified. He looked over the rail of the stairs and saw a group of about ten men, each looking retched and hungry, as well as José Carioca circulating around the room, keeping them placated with his house wine as they spoke of whatever it was they spoke of in their language.

Louie stayed up on the stairs, making sure he was well back against the dark wall so he couldn't be seen. He pulled out a small microphone, just in case he could understand something, and snaked it down over the top of the stairs, directly over the heads of the men. At first, he couldn't really decipher anything of real importance, but eventually He could make out some recurring words that he recognized. First, 'Capitalista,' spoken with a deep distain that cut Louie, who had just about been brought up with capitalism as a de-facto religion, to the bone. Next, he could hear names, Zé, Carlos, Marco. Interesting, but not too useful. For a moment, Louie wished that he and his brothers hadn't had to turn in their nigh-mystical Junior Woodchuck guidebook when they outgrew the organization. It really was useful for situations such as this.

It was then he heard a peculiar mix of 'Capitalista' used in junction with the word, 'Sequestre,' which Louie knew to mean 'Kidnap.' His ears pricked up harder for any other hints, but it was no use. The discussion ended soon after with a rousing cry of "¡Viva Volta!" led by a seemingly enthusiastic Carioca. '¡Viva VPR!"

Soon after, with not a sound uttered, the Green Phantom was up the stairs, through the curtain, back up through the second floor, out the window, scaling the wall outside, and in through the window of his single-bed hotel room. Checking for spies, Louie, searched every nook and cranny before he got comfortable enough to come up from the persona of the crime fighter, and become Louie once again.

Communists! He thought, And Zé is one of them. Not only that, but they're planning on kidnapping someone... but who?

He wracked his brain, before realizing that he didn't have nearly enough information to go on, not with his abysmal grasp of Portuguese. That tape he made with the recorder, however, could be useful if he could have someone listen to it, someone who could get more out of it than he could.

Taking his mind off of things for the night, Louie laid down on the plush bed, hiding the tape of the radical's conversation in his pillowcase for safe keeping. Soon after, he was asleep.

***

"Louie! Wake up."

Bleary and still half asleep, Louie's half-remembered dreams ran together with reality causing a confused vision of the modern sight of Huey Duck's face looming over his own while the glacial hills of the Yukon rose behind him, where he had seen Uncle Scrooge walk off through only moments before.

"Louie."

"What?" Then he remembered the night before, and his back was suddenly straight and sober, "Wait, did something happen?"

"Huh? No. Mr. Carioca is just fixing breakfast. Come on. Even Dewey had a few bites before he stepped out with Webby."

Rolling over, Louie crawled out of his warm bed, groaning. He grabbed a terrycloth robe in the colors of the Brazilian flag off of the bathroom door before he began to follow Huey downstairs.

Strong smells of brewing coffee wafted up through the staircase as Louie padded his way down the steps. Instantly, his stomach woke up a little behind schedule, and demanded to be filled. He walked a little faster towards a little alcove that stood off to one side of the lobby containing a cushy, sun-drenched breakfast nook, where Huey was already seated, chewing on a halved papaya fruit. The table was set with all manner of cheese and cold cuts, and small sweet cakes, along with a long loaf of bread which had already been decimated halfway down. Louie sat down next to his brother and took up the breadknife, helping himself to a thick chunk off of the loaf.

"Ah, Sleepyhead Louie finally wakes," Said that slickly accented voice as the green parrot walked up with a fresh pot of strong coffee, along with three already filled mugs, "You rich men always seem to enjoy staying in bed."

"Not all of them," said Louie, as he took one of the white cups of coffee, "Some of them are up at the crack of dawn to make more money."

"Like Dewey," said Huey, "You should have seen him. He must have called every single arm of McDuck Enterprises just to yell at them not to slack off while he's taking time off in Brazil. He then proceeded to run the business by proxy by José's phone anyway, until the crow at the front desk kicked him off of it for running up the long-distance charges."

"It was an ugly sight. Nestor is not so used to people yelling at them like that." José took a sip of the coffee. "Luckily that lovely young senhorita convinced him to take in the town. He needs it, poor little duck, he looks sickly."

As José spoke, Louie's mind couldn't help but flash back to last night, and the sight of José Carioca limping around among a band of Marxist revolutionaries, distributing the wine, and laughing and smiling along with their whispered plots and plans. As he stared at the large beaked face so full of life, he wondered if he really believed in the radicals or if he was merely playing along. Was he in trouble somehow?

"José?"

"Please! Any nephew of Donal' must call me Joe, or Zé as they would say here."

"All right, Joe. I don't suppose there are any eggs back there. I am just dying for one over easy with a piece of toast."

With a loud laugh, José slapped Louie on the back, "Of course! Of course. I shall cook for you all the eggs you want. One 'Ofor Eesie' an' a piece of toast." He then stood, taking up his mug of coffee, "As they say in the states: Back in a jiffy."

As he walked off, Louie watched him off nervously, which Huey noticed.

"Louie. What's up?" he began to take on his brother's shifty tone.

"Er... Listen, Huey. I want you to listen to this." He produced a small tape recorder from the pocket of his robe, which he placed on the table, "I recorded it last night, but I don't know a word of Spanish."

"Portuguese."

"See? No idea. Can you help?"

Noting the serious expression in Louie's eyes, Huey wordlessly turned on the recorder and began to listen to the playback.

The hushed voices were barely audible over the loud static of the tape recorder, but Huey bent in to listen.

"José? Is that Joe I hear?"

Louie merely nodded. "What are they talking about?"

"The football game. Pélé apparently won them the game against England, one-to-nothing."

Louie deflated, "Oh. Well... Keep listening!"

Huey did, growing ever more impatient, "They're talking pretty fast. I'm only picking up every other... wait." He had reached the cheers, and his blood froze, "Rewind that."

Louie did, rewinding it and playing it back.

"VPR?" Huey's eyes had gone wide, "It's the goddamn Vanguarda Popular Revolucionária. Where did you find this? What is Joe doing there?"

"Shh!" Said Louie suddenly, as the parrot came back through the beaded curtain, holding a plate of fluffy yellow mounds.

"We were all out of 'ofor eesie,' I do not think they make it in Brazil. I make you Scramblies instead."

"That is just fine, Joe. Thank you."

Huey chimed in, "Er, Say, Joe. The smell of those eggs is fantastic. Could I get some too?"

"Of course! Of course! Um minuto."

"Oh, and do you have any bacon? Eggs go just great with a slice of bacon on the side."

"Say no more my frien'." He walked happily back through the beaded portal.

Ignoring the eggs, Louie and Huey began speaking conspiratorially once more. "So where was this?"

"Downstairs, in the wine cellar. I think they're using the hotel as a hideout. Who are they?"

"They're a group of commie revolutionaries. You're saying they're downstairs?"

"Probably not this minute, but yes. I heard, er, Se... Sequester? That means kidnap, right?"

"Yeah, Sequestre, but they don't say who. They just call him 'the capitalist.' They planned it for this morning, when he is separated from his group, and are planning to exchange him for some political prisoners."

"So, they're planning to kidnap a capitalist in the morning, when he gets separated from some 'group.'" He scratched his head, "I wonder..."

Then, slowly, deliberately, the two ducks turned their heads towards each other. As soon as they saw the other's eyes, they understood that they were thinking the same thing.

"Dewey!"

"Here you boys are, Bacon and eggs, just like you... huh?" José looked at the empty breakfast nook with a concerned eye towards the untouched plate of scrambled eggs. The open door was still in mid-swing, as if they had just left, and in a hurry.

José sighed, before he placed the plate of breakfast on the table and walked back towards the backroom, muttering "Merda" under his breath.

***

There he stood, awkwardly taking up space in the middle of the busy outdoor marketplace. People spilled around him like a river around a rock. He had very reluctantly eschewed his tie, by Webigail's suggestion, and his neck felt strange without the slight pressure of his collar pressing in against it. His hands, with nothing better to do, buried themselves in his pockets as a bulwark against possible pickpockets.

"Dewey, how about this?" asked Webby, holding up a pretty little summer dress off of a nearby rack, "I need new clothes after that terrible time in Duckburg."

"It's fine."

Webby pursed the lips of her beak, "are you sure? That's what you said about the last one."

"Yes, that one was fine as well."

"Alright then," she said, picking out another dress, "How about this one."

"Just fine."

"Or maybe this one?"

"That one's fine. Just great."

"Dewey, I'm not holding anything."

His face swiveled over, and she was indeed simply standing with her hands balled in front of her.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Are you alright, Dewey? I know how hard this has to be for you."

He turned away from her, "It's just fine. Uncle Scrooge's entire fortune is just in the hands of those incompetents at the company. I could come home bankrupt for all I know." His brow creased, "And just when my gold mine was opening up."

"It will still be there when you get back, Dewey," she answered, in her most soothing voice, "Mr. Kagan is in charge of everything. He's a very competent businessman."

"Yes. Of course," Dewey began, his eyes starting to soften, "Farid is quite good, isn't he."

"So there's nothing to worry about. We just need to wait for the all-clear to come back in to Duckburg and you can go right back to being your regular wretched self."

"What was that?"

"I said you can go right back to your regular winning self."

"Oh."

Webby abandoned the clothes rack with sigh and a smile. She wound her arm around her boss's elbow and smiled up at him. "Relax, Dewey. Nothing is going to happen."

At that moment, there was a commotion down the crowded street. People stampeded down the market away from some great growling menace. When the crowd finally parted, Dewey could see that it was a long, black car with tinted windows. It was coming right for them.

"Dewey...?"

Without wasting another minute, he grabbed onto a nearby stall and pulled it forward, spreading splintering wood and crates over the road in front of the car. They ran, hand-in-hand, as the car began to slip from side-to-side on the crushed fruit it had spread all over the road. However, the speeding car was simply too fast, and it came to a stop in front of the two fleeing ducks. Out poured a team of people of unknown species, wearing big stocking caps over their faces. Webby screamed, trying to summon help, while Dewey back up into the nearest stall, abandoned, and selling scissors of various makes and models.

One of the men approached Dewey, babbling on in Portuguese, threatening him with a gun. As soon as he was close enough to grab Dewey, Dewey struck. He grasped the hand holding the gun firmly with his left hand, and with his right drove a pair of wicked scissors directly into the masked man's arm. To avoid unnecessary dry-cleaning, Dewey turned the bleeding wrist away from himself, so he wouldn't get splashed with the blood. The shock of the stab caused the man's grip on his gun to loosen, which Dewey took full advantage of, by wresting it out of the screaming terrorist's fingers before kicking him square in the chest, causing him to fall back into the gutter.

The others began to wield their guns, and Dewey found cover, "Webby!" he screamed.

She screamed. Dewey peeked around the scissor stall he had hidden behind and saw her being held at gunpoint by a plain-faced beagle.

"Mr. Duck. If you would come out and come with us peacefully, we will spare the girl."

"Who are you?" yelled Dewey, checking the gun, a small pistol, and finding too few shots inside to get all of the goons before they got him or Webigail.

"We are the revolution, Mr. Duck. You will be doing a great service to my country. Please come with us."

"No, Dewey! Don't! Get away!" Webby then gave a muffled screamed as a thick cloth was stuffed into her beak.

"Don't you dare hurt Webigail!"

"Then will you come with us or not?"

"I..." he swallowed a lob of saliva, sweating as he was forced to choose between himself and the best personal assistant a man could have. He suddenly got an idea.

The duck rose up, with the gun trained on his own head, "Don't you dare hurt a hair on her head, or I'll kill myself, you hear me?"

The plain-faced man did not flinch, although his companions did, "You would not, Mr. Duck."

"You want to try me? You need me. I don't know why, but you do. If you don't have me, you lose."

It was a tense moment as the dog held the girl hostage, while the duck held himself. Their eyes bored into each other, a visual knife-fight, from which there could only be one winner.

"Ugh!" yelled one of the goons suddenly, his feet suddenly wrapped in a strong cord tied to a set of heavy rocks. He fell forward, firing into the air uselessly.

With that, the other goons were pointing their guns into the air, trying to find the source of the bolas. Another masked Marxist was suddenly whisked away, dragged off by some other strange rope-trick that had been perpetrated on him.

The plain-faced man yelled at his subordinates in Portuguese, before roughly shoving Webigail into the black car.

The Green Phantom swung in just then on a long rope, kicking one of the dazed freedom fighters in the face and knocking him down for the count. The leader and the remaining few goons piled back in the car, believing themselves surrounded.

"No! Stop!" yelled Dewey as he raised his gun. He fired on the car as it began to drive away, only managing to hit the back bumper before it disappeared down the street, "Webigail!"

The Green Phantom then landed next to his brother, "Dewey." He flinched as a gun was roughly shoved into his face.

"You! I had things under control before you swooped in. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you left with Darkwing Duck."

"What I'm doing here is saving your life."

"But... but they got Ms. Vanderquack." Dewey fell to his knees slowly, dropping the gun on the ground. "They took Webby. What was that?"

"They were planning to take you for ransom. Needless to say, we can't let them do that. You're too important."

"But..."

Louie knelt down, his inner hero burning forth, giving him to right lines to speak, "I can get her back. I Will get her back. We've just got to find out where they've taken her."

"I don't think that will be possible, amigos." Said another voice behind them.

The Green Phantom stood suddenly, reaching for a tool, but was stopped by the sight of a large, elegant revolver in the hand of José Carioca, and the umbrella in the other.

Louie's eye's squinted. "You..."

"I'm very sorry. It is not anything to do with you, I promise. I simply cannot let you interfere with the VPR any more than you already have. It is important."

"Traitor! You... You traitor!"

"I have no loyalty to you, my frien'. It is a... family matter. I am sad that I must do this to Donal's sweet little nephews, but... but I was hoping you wouldn't bring me to it." He rose up the pistol towards Louie's head, his hand shaking the whole way, "I... I'm sorry."

"Sorry to butt in."

"¿Que?" said José, just before he found Huey's hard head ramming into his stomach. Knocked to the floor and winded, José dropped the revolver by his side, clutching his stomach and whining.

"Huey!"

"Couldn't let this slime off my favorite Superhero, could I?"

But Dewey had no time for small talk, he walked right up to José and climbed on top of him, putting his bill close to the parrot's beak.

"Where is she?"

Carioca simply whined, his stomach still sore after Huey's head butt.

"Where is she!?"

"I don' know! I don' know." Tears began to form at the edge of his vision. "They... They promise to tell me after I help them. Give them a place to stay at. They... they took my daughters... They took Rosalina, Maria, and Amalia, and they will kill them if I do not cooperate. Oh Mãe de Maria do dues."

Huey blinked, "Daughters? I thought they were your nieces."

But José was too far gone to answer. He merely babbled on in Portuguese, muttering platitudes to whoever would listen. He was soon snapped out of it by a rough slap from Dewey.

"Answer. Tell us whatever you know."

"Dewey!" yelled Louie. "Push off. He's a wreck."

"So am I, Ghost! My PA was just kidnapped instead of me. She could be dead by now!"

"Yelling at Joe won't make anything better!"

"It will if he knows something!"

Their two heads had gotten closer and closer as they yelled, their beaks nearly touching each other, splashing spittle on the other's beak. Soon, however, both felt the impression of a hand on the back of their heads, before those same heads were forcibly knocked together. Huey rubbed his hands as the two brothers he assaulted fell to the ground, dazed. He then walked up to José and held out his hand.

"Are you okay, Joe? I hit you pretty hard."

"I... I'm okay." He seemed to have gotten a hold of himself as Huey helped him to his feet, "I... I know where they might have taken her."

"Where?" said all three.

"There is... There is a compound a few miles out of town, He may have taken her there." He then grasped the fur-lined lapels of Huey's jacket, "Please, if you find my girls..."

"Don't worry, Joe. We'll help."

"An'... please do not let them know about me. They mustn't know I'm their fathers."

"I understand."

Louie had recovered from his head injury, and stood, "The car is in the Seaduck. If we start driving now, we could probably make that compound by nightfall." He then turned towards Dewey, "Er... are you okay?"

"No," Dewey said, standing up slowly, brushing off his suit, "Let's go."

Calmly, he began to walk towards the dock, followed by Louie, and then Huey, supporting José Carioca with a helping shoulder.

***

Rough hands shoved and pushed her through the dark. A bag was over her head, obscuring her vision, and causing the sweat to cling to her feathers and beak. With one last shove, Webigail lost her balance and fell to the floor. The hands pulled roughly at the black hood, and grey, dingy light flooded her sudden vision. Her hands, bound behind her back, were freed, the knife nicking the sides of her wrist. Without a word, her still unseen kidnapper left the room, and slammed the heavy barred door behind him.

Webby finally had the presence of mind to inspect her surroundings. It was a large, square, unadorned room, with brown walls and piles of straw everywhere. Huddled in the corner were three others, dirty and destitute, and with masses of stringy black hair and ruffled green feathers sticking up every which way. They were young women, lushly-colored parrots with small, dainty beaks, and were nigh identical except for a few subtle distinctions in shape of face and body shape. To tell them apart, the rags of whatever was left of their clothes were colored Red, Blue, and Green.

"Rosalina, Maria, and Amalia, right?" said Webby, kindly.

After a moment, the one in red spoke up, "Yes. Who are you?"

"I'm Webigail Vanderquack. I'm a friend of your Uncle, José Carioca."

The one in green blurted out, "Tio Carioca?" And began to speak in rapid fire Portuguese.

"Please... er," Her meager knowledge of the language failed her. "I don't understand."

"Is okay, Miss. My cousins do not speak the English. Please. How is our Oncle?"

"He is just fine, er... Maria?"

The red-clad one shook her head, "No. I am Rosalina," She pointed to her blue sister, "This is Maria," and to her green sister, "And this Amalia."

Webby was sure the disturbing symmetry between these three girls and the three Duck boys was simply coincidence, but nevertheless decided to keep a suspicious eye on the blue sister if they ever got out of this mess. "Ah. Well, even under these circumstances, it's nice to meet you." She then looked around, "Who are these people?"

"Their leader is a man named Carlos Lamarca. He is ruthless."

"Evidentially," said Webby, "Well girls, I suppose we're stuck together."

The four women then sat up against the back wall, Webby hugging her knees to her chest and the three girls all hugging each other.

***

"Turn here, Louie," said José, pointing out a small, blink-and-you'll-miss-it side road in the jungle. The little red car turned wide, almost dipping into the deep ruts on the sides of the thin dirt strip.

"I still don't see why we're trusting him," said Dewey, with a glare at José, who was situated in the rumble seat next to Huey, "He was just about to shoot Green Phantom. He could be leading us into a trap." José looked shamed by Dewey's words.

"Yeah? And?" answered Louie, "There are no other leads to go on. We need to act now."

"Oh like you know what you're talking about." He looked back at Huey, "Why didn't we go get Louie?"

"Stop here, quickly," said Joe, interrupting the conversation.

Dewey looked around, and spread his arms out, "Where is it, Carioca?"

"It is in just a few more meters that way," he pointed towards the left, into the thick bushes.

Huey jumped up and out over the top, "Let's go."

"Wait! Are we just leaving Carioca here?" said Dewey.

Louie rolled his eyes, "No. You're staying too. We can't afford to take you with us." He smirked, "You've got Scrooge's gun. You keep guard over him if you want."

" What? But..."

But it was too late, Huey and the Green Phantom had disappeared into the overgrown foliage.

"I don't suppose you would have a light, Senhor," said José, who had somehow found a half-smoked cigar somewhere or other on his person. Dewey crossed his arms and leaned back, grumbling under his breath.

***

Birds called in the sky as the two ducks marauded through the jungle. Louie was having trouble every now and then with his cape catching on branches and twigs.

"Quiet," whispered Huey, who stalked through the trees relatively soundlessly, "You're going to give us away."

"It's my cape. It keeps catching on things."

"So ditch it. You don't really need a cape do you?"

"It's part of my design aesthetic."

"Oh for pete's sake."

Huey came up behind Louie and grabbed the small catch located around Louie's neck that attached the cape to the rest of the outfit. He then balled the cape up, while keeping it away from his brother's desperate, reaching hands, before chucking the whole thing deep into the woods.

"You jerk! What did you do that for?"

"I did you a favor. Now come on." He then started back through the woods again.

The Green Phantom gave one last look towards where his cape used to be, sighed, and turned to follow his brother.

Soon, the two of them came to the edge of a clearing, surrounded by large coils of barbed wire piled two men high. Beyond, there were several flat, utilitarian buildings built sturdily of long sheets of aluminum and wood. The men patrolling the area were of all different species, but were consistently unwashed and a little mad around the eyes, possibly from hunger, and possibly from crazy.

Knowing now that this was the end of their banter for the moment, Louie and Huey began to wordlessly navigate their way around the deadly fence. Louie pointed towards a tall tree nearby, whose long branches jutted out over the coiled wires. Huey, in answer, nodded, and very soon the two brothers were helping each other climb up the lush tree. Very soon, the two of them were scooting along the thick branch carefully. Louie looked down into the camp and tried to ascertain where the girls must be hidden.

"There are bars on that one," Louie whispered, pointing towards a small building near the center of the camp, "Maybe we can sneak over the rooftops."

"Good a plan as any. Lead the way Mr. hero."

Louie nodded his head lightly, before reaching into his suit for an appropriate gadget. He pulled out a simple, Iron hook that had obviously been salvaged from somewhere, and tied to a long rope.

"Wait a second," said Huey, "That's from the Sea duck! You can't just steal shit from the sea duck."

"I'm sorry. My grappling hook gun got lost and the new one won't come for another two weeks, not to mention it will come to my apartment in Saint Canard. I needed a new one."

Huey stared at the coiled rope in Louie's arms for a moment, before snorting, "Fine, but if you want something like that from my company's plane you ask first."

"Right-o." And with that, Louie stood up, balancing on the branch. He shaded his eyes to eyeball the distance to the nearest roof, before uncoiling a measure of rope. Circling his head like a halo, the makeshift grappling hook spun in his hands, before he threw the hook towards the nearest roof. The hook slammed down onto the tin roof of the building, puncturing it with the sharp end of the curved iron. Louie pulled the rope tight to test it, before he tied it off to a strong branch above their heads.

Huey's eyebrows came up, "Why do you need a grapple gun if you can do that?"

"What?"

"Why do you need the grapple gun? You accomplished the same thing using a homemade tool, and some skills. It would probably be cheaper just to carry around some rope and rocks to make all your own tools instead of carrying around all those stupid thingamajigs?"

"I... er... Well. It's what you're supposed to have when you're a hero, you know? Like Darkwing Duck, y'know?"

Taking off his jacket and twisting it around tightly, Huey prepared to slide down the rope using the leather garment. "Louie, you were probably the best Junior Woodchuck out of the three of us towards the end there when it came to the crafts and activities." He placed the twisted jacket on the rope and crouched, preparing to jump, "But you were always lousy at thinking the details through without me and Dewey there. See you on the other side." He then jumped, the leather making a muffled buzz as it slid down towards the distant building.

Louie, still standing on the branch, crossed his arms, realizing that what Huey said was absolutely right. With a dissatisfied "huh," he pulled the toilet plunger-shaped fingerprint scanner out of his belt and used it once again to slide down the rope.

***

"I spy with my little eye," began Rosalina, looking over their small jail cell, "Something that begins with 'B.'"

Webby, head in hands, sighed and muttered, "Is it 'bars?'"

"Oh, wait, I do that one before, yes? This gets hard as time goes by."

"Don't worry about it Rose. It's a silly game anyway." Webigail sighed again, mostly out of habit at this point, and leaned back into her soft straw pile. "when do they feed us around here, anyway?"

"Day after tomorrow is next time."

"Great."

"Is not great. We are hungry."

"Have you three tried talking to the guards?"

Maria was the one who chimed in here, "Yais. But the gards, they haf been told not to... what is? Leesen to our wourds. Nout after what Amalia did that first day."

"What did Amalia do?" asked Webby.

Rosalina smiled, a sign of her good humor even in such a situation, "She use her... what is? ...Feminine intuitions to promise the guards that every wish of theirs would come true."

"And what happened?"

"Guards come in. We knock them in the man's weakness, and all three of us try to escape. However, we do not get as far as the fence before we are caught. And now the guards, they wear earplugs to drown out our seductions."

"On the oother hand side," began Maria, "they do not coume in to molest os. Is good thing, yes?"

Amalia, inferring the context of this exchange, nodded her pretty little head, proud of her achievement.

"Oh. Good." Webby scratched under her bill, the straw giving her a feeling of itchiness all over. "I suppose we'll just have to wait for them to do whatever it is they want to do with us. Maybe whatever they want will just fall into their laps and they'll free us."

Before Rosalina could answer, however, the roof over their head burst open, and two figures fell inside, kicking up a cloud of straw. The three girls gave little screams as they ran away from the falling figures, but Webby stood her ground, thinking absently that the surefire escape tactic wasn't to break a long or untie a chain, but to say something ironic at the right time.

The Straw settled down, revealing two ducks on the ground, one in a strange costume, and the other wearing a tight-fitting red undershirt, and with a leather flight jacket in his hands. The two figures slowly began to pick themselves up off the floor.

"Huey? Louie?"

"Here," said a dazed Louie, "I'm not late for class, I swear."

Webby ran up quickly and hugged Louie around the neck, "Thank goodness!" She then looked to Huey, "But where's Dewey?"

"He's waiting with José Carioca in the car."

"Tio Carioca!?" said three voices in unison.

It was then that Huey looked over and saw that his occasional fantasy of three identical women wearing next to nothing had come to life.

"Buh?"

The three girls then swarmed around Huey, grabbing his strong, bare arms and pulling at him. "Tio Carioca. You bring word of Tio Carioca?"

"Er. Yes. He's with Dewey in the getaway car. Don't worry. He's safe."

The three women were so happy that they began to babble among themselves in Portuguese, while orbiting around Huey like three sexy satellites around a really dazed planet.

"Let's get out of here," suggested Webigail, "We can do that, right?"

"Not with six people, we can't. Sneaking around in a group that size is asking for trouble."

"Then it is a good thing you won't have to worry about that!" said an artificially amplified voice from outside of the cell. Louie swore loudly. The three girls glommed onto Huey for protection. "My name is Carlos Lamarca. I am the leader of this camp. Intruders. We have snipers on the roofs and gunners surrounding the prison building. Do not do anything too rash or we shall fill all of you with the lead."

"What do we do now?" said Huey, trying not to get distracted by the three wild-haired beauties that huddled up against him.

"We... we..." He crossed his arms and began to tap his foot, "This is just great. They must have seen us swing over to this building. We need to find a way to get back to Dewey, or..." He snapped his fingers, "...Or a way for Dewey to come to us."

"What are you planning?"

Without answering, Louie reached into his pocket to pull out an unmolested, and so far unused gadget he had bought on a whim. The flare-o-matic 6000 with attached typing mechanism. "He'll be able to see a flare if we shoot it high enough."

"But they'll shoot at us if we try."

"Then lay down flat. They'll shoot over our heads without hitting us."

"All right. You're the boss." He addressed the three Senhoritas, "You heard him girls, lie down in the center of the room."

Rosalina nodded and translated for the other two, who, for their part, giggled at the thought of lying down with this red-clad man in any capacity. Side-by-side, the girls, Huey, and Webby flattened down on the ground, while Louie finished typing the little message on the Flare-o-matic.

"I hope this works." He then pointed the flare canister up towards the hole he had created in the ceiling and fired, before instantly throwing himself to the floor.

"FIRE!" they heard, before the walls and ceiling was littered with bullet holes. The girls screamed in surprise as the flying lead whistled over their heads, and Webby had to grit down to keep herself from screaming similarly.

Soon enough, the gunfire stopped. Everyone was unhurt, but rattled. Soon, the man known as Carlos Lamarca began to speak again.

"If you are still alive, please listen, for I will only say this once. You are all expendable, and once you are gone we will be in the perfect position to capture the capitalist American, Dewey Duck, for to exchange him for forty political prisoners being held by the tyrannical Brazilian government." He paused. "If you are still alive, you will be used as bait for the capture of Dewey Duck."

"What now, genius?"

"We wait."

"For what?"

Yells and the sounds of bending metal answered Huey's question. There were the cracks of gunfire and the sound of a puttering engine pushing as hard as it could under the circumstances.

"To one side, everybody," said Louie, as he herded the group away from the south wall.

"What did you tell him in the flare, Louie?" asked Huey.

"It said 'ram the south wall.'"

Soon, the thin wall of the prison burst open, revealing the front end of Louie's little red convertible. As the dust settled, Webigail was the first to open her eyes and try to look for the driver.

"Dewey?"

In answer, the grim-faced duck popped up out of his position, crouching under the driver's seat. Crouching in the rumble seat behind him was José Carioca, who had indeed found a light for his Cigar.

"Tio Carioca!" the three girls yelled, running towards the car, and climbing all over it, trampling Dewey underfoot like a dirty, sexy stampede. The girls squeezed into the rumble seat with their uncle, embracing him, not intending to let go for anything.

"My... My little girls! You are safe now."

Webby had run up, followed by Louie and Huey, "Dewey, Let's get out of here."

"It's going to be a tight fit," said Louie, "Scoot over. I drive."

Dewey complied, squeezing himself between his two brothers in the front seat, and allowing Webby to sit In his lap, with her arms around his neck for support. In the back, the small pile of Cariocas were a mass of hugging arms supporting each other.

"Go!" Yelled Huey, as the car backed out of the wall, and almost immediately into gunfire.

The car quickly began to pick up speed. It rushed through the gaps between the buildings, trying to find a route that wasn't overrun with revolutionaries. Eventually, such a path towards the hole in the barbed wire fence appeared. Slamming down the gas, Louie drove on towards the hole, just before a round-nosed Marxist jumped from the roof onto the hood of the car, wielding a knife.

The girls screamed, and the man began to raise his knife to take out Louie, but for Huey's intervention. Huey stood up, grasping the man's knife hand in his own, and began to struggle for ownership of the knife even as the barbed wire fence loomed ever closer.

"Huey!" Yelled Dewey, "You're too high, the wires will kill you!"

"Not today!" Huey yelled as he twisted the freedom-fighter's wrist, causing him to scream in pain and drop the knife over the edge of the car. Without enough time before they passed under the low clearance of the Barbed wire fence's hole, Huey simple picked the revolutionary up bodily by the collar and held him up, protecting himself from the shredding wires using the man's back. The man screamed as his back was made into a bleeding mess, before he passed out from pain. Past the barbs, and With no more use for him, Huey dump the man's unconscious body over the side of the car and sat down calmly.

"Where now?" yelled Louie.

"Sea Duck." Said Huey, "Maybe Rio wasn't such a good idea after all."

"And, er, what about them?" said Dewey.

As the little car drove through the jungle floor towards the pathway, the four ducks looked back at the four parrots questioningly.

Webby was the first to speak, "José, you should come with us."

"What?" asked Huey, "What are you...?"

"He's in danger here, because of us. We should take him and his nieces somewhere else, away from the VPR."

Dewey stared at Webby's earnest face for a full minute, the car finding its way back onto the smoother dirt road, before he nodded, "Fine. Thank you Ms. Vanderquack."

"You're welcome, Dewey."

***

In Portuguese, Carlos Lamarca, was conversing with a lieutenant as he surveyed to damage and injury caused by the escapees.

"Report, Miguel."

"There is extensive damage to the prison block, as well as the hole in the fence. Three men were injured in the attack. We Raul may die from his wounds."

Lamarca nodded, before he rubbed his temple, "This plan was a disaster. Why did no one know that Dewey Duck and he brothers were so fearsome?"

"We thought they were merely the relatives of the richest duck in the world, sir. We did not expect them to be so formidable."

"Scrap the kidnapping plot. We will find another way to get back our brothers." He sighed, "But how?"

After a moment of thought, Miguel shrugged his shoulders and said, "The Prime minister of Switzerland will be in Rio in two months, won't he?"

After a moment, Lamarca nodded his head, "Good a plan as any. Tell the men to quit searching for the Ducks and begin planning for our new plot immediately."

"Yes sir."

***

About an hour later, the group found themselves near the dock, driving towards the Sea duck. They braked in front of the dock before piling out. Webby retrieved a large blanket from the car's trunk and wrapped the three girls up with it. As Huey lowered the ramp up to the Sea Duck's cargo hold, Louie lamented over the red paint of the car, which had been largely scratched off by barbed wire and branches.

Dewey spoke, annoyed at the prospect of having to tell his subordinates where he'll be all over again once he touches down god knows where, "Well, where to now?"

"Honestly, I need to get back to Cape Suzette," said Huey, "I should have been back by now. Old man Cloudkicker will have my head. Once we're there, we can charter you guys a flight back to the states. Duckburg must have cooled off by now."

José shook his head, gesturing towards himself and his nieces with his cigar, "If it is all the same, if you would drop us off on the way, it would be lovely."

"Oh, Are you sure, Zé?" asked Webby, "We would be honored to have you accompany us."

The car drove up the ramp slowly, followed by José and his progeny, and then the rest of the duck family.

"No. We must part the ways. I am old and not cut out for adventure, and I would like to spend some time with Rosalina, Maria, and Amalia. I cannot thank you enough for saving my little girls."

"Alright, Sure. Where to?" asked Huey with a smile as he raised the ramp, "Anywhere at all."

"Anywhere, hm?" As the last of the natural sunlight disappeared as the ramp closed up behind them, He looked to his nieces and smiled. He then turned towards Huey and, putting a voice dripping with nostalgia and easy sensuality, said, "Tell me Huey. Have you ever been to... Bahia?"


	7. Episode 7

Episode 7:

At about hour three over the Atlantic ocean, on the way from Bahia to drop off the Cariocas, to Upland and Cape Suzette, the boys officially ran out of things to do to pass the time.

"Which one do you think was the cutest?" said Huey, who had engaged the autopilot feature of the Seaduck, which involved tying the controls down with a rope and a crowbar so they couldn't move. He was sitting in the passenger area with his brothers and Webigail, who was sleeping.

"What are you talking about?" asked the Green Phantom, who couldn't even change out of his stuffy costume thanks to stupid Dewey not being able to figure out his real identity.

"The girls. Joe's Nieces... Daughters... whatever. Which one do you think was the cutest?"

"They were practically identical, Huey," Louie answered.

"I know, but wasn't Rosalina just a little firecracker?"

"I guess."

"And Amalia was such a shrinking violet. She barely said two words to me the whole time they were with us."

"Not surprising," cut in Dewey, "she doesn't know a word of English."

"But of course there was little Maria. I think she had the best rack."

"Jesus Christ, Huey. Must we talk about this?" said Louie, "I do believe I was much too busy running from South American communists to pay attention to Maria's... er..."

"Rack?"

"Yes. And besides that, we've already had that conversation three times since Webby went to sleep, and it was no less awkward then so drop it."

Huey blinked at his brother's outburst. The Green Phantom leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes, trying to will the plane to go faster. Recovering from Louie's annoyed rage, Huey's eyes half-closed, and a smile came over his bill.

"Too bad Louie couldn't make it out here, huh?"

Green Phantom opened his eyes, and was about to say something when he noticed Dewey react, throwing up his hands, and saying, "Forget about that spendthrift. I'm glad he's not around. Things will go much smoother without him gumming up the works."

Louie's face began to blush, and strong words crowded up at the tip of his tongue, but were held back by the sense of honor among superheroes that demanded he keep himself masked. Huey noted this and, with a further smile, went on.

"What is it with you and Louie anyway, Dewey? What happened between you two?" He then turned his face towards the Green Phantom, "If you don't mind talking family business in front of strangers."

"Oh no. I'll trumpet it high and low. Louie was a lousy partner."

Louie's face, hidden partially behind the mask, was held in a rictus, barely containing his rising anger at both of his brothers.

"How so. What actually happened?"

Dewey rolled his eyes, "Like I believe you care about things like that, Huey."

"What? Come on. I want to know why you two are always fighting all the time. What's up with that?"

With a nod, Dewey agreed, "Fine." He leaned back and began to prepare for story time. "You see, it was a few months after you left, and the two of us had decided to run McDuck Enterprises together. It was Uncle Scrooge's wish that we, the three of us, would continue the company, but of course..."

"Uncle Sam called instead, and I played hooky."

"...right. So there we were, two kids, pretty much, running a multi-bajillion dollar empire. It soon became clear that the two of us were not quite so compatible in business as we thought we would be.

"The trouble started when Louie started to get into... charity work."

"Ch-charity work?" Huey stammered out. The boys had had a fascinating view of charity, due to their duel upbringing. Donald Duck, a decent sort, rarely thought about thinks like that, barely having two cents to rub together himself, and their Uncle Scrooge took the word 'give' to be a dirty word. Huey understood the need for charity, in theory, but hard-coded life lessons from their great uncle stayed his hand from giving too generously to anything if he couldn't get anything back.

Dewey nodded his head, his face showing the same disdain that Scrooge would have in the same situation, "And not worth it in the least. It was something about books and teachers and Africa."

"Teachers Crossing Borders," interjected Louie.

"Right, something wishy-washy like that," Dewey was beginning to get into the story, "So when I find out he's been sending money away anonymously... Without making adequate records, mind, so we don't even get to claim it on our taxes... I put my foot down. I tell him there's no profit in it, and if there's no profit than the company should have nothing to do with it. Do you know what he did after that?"

"No," said Huey, "What?"

"He was going on and on about 'moral responsibility' or something or other, when he tries to make a point. He takes out a fresh one hundred dollar bill, and tells me 'It's just paper if you don't use it' and- get this- he sets the bill on fire and dumps it in the trash!"

"No!" said Huey, torn between beginning to regret using Dewey to bait Louie, and genuine shock at finding out that Louie has defaced money, a crime in the Duck family punishable by death.

The Green Phantom, not willing to let himself go unrepresented, jumped in, "So he burned a Benjamin. So what? You seem like you were being unreasonable."

"All due respect Phantom," said Dewey, "But this is a family matter. Butt out."

"Why you little, no good..."

But, alas, Louie's scathing comment could not be completed. There was a loud boom from outside, over the hum of the spinning propellers, and all three ducks looked out the window. Webby was suddenly roused by the roar and rubbed her eyes.

"Wha happened?"

"Bad news, fellers," said Huey as he began to walk towards the cockpit, "We've got SIL."

"Who?" asked Webby.

Louie answered quickly as he began to buckle his seatbelt, "International anti-sky piracy and smuggling strike force."

"Oh. Why would they want us?"

Huey took up his CB radio and hailed the Iron Vulture. Almost immediately, those Spanish-inflected tones lilted up towards him.

"Ah! So the little duck has come home to roost."

Huey's brow crowded in on itself, before he began to answer, "Hey Junior. How's tricks?"

"Just ever so peachy keen," said Commodore Perry Kid with barely disguised contempt, "Now if you will, I have need to inspect your craft."

"We ain't hauling anything, Junior, can't you give us a pass just this once?"

"Now now, Mr. Duck. If I gave passes to you I would have to give passes to everybody I meet, yes no?"

Huey sat at the pilot's seat, grumbling as he undid the 'autopilot,' "Fine. Open up the vulture's beak. We're flying in." He then slammed down the CB, making sure to make as much noise with it as possible to annoy the operators on the other side.

Louie and Dewey came into the cabin slowly, as if they were treading on ground they weren't quite sure they were allowed in. Louie spoke, "What did they want?"

"To inspect our cargo, obviously," Answered Dewey, "and we've got nothing to hide, so I don't see why not. Maybe they can give us a lift. We can save money on gas."

"From these hard-asses?" answered Huey as he lined up the Sea Duck with the gaping maw of the Iron Vulture, "I doubt it."

***

The yellow plane came to a screeching stop on the long landing strip inside the Iron Vulture as a crewmember held up two orange flags, directing the Sea Duck to arrive at a full stop in a space set up for it. The spinning propellers slowed to a halt and the engines quieted themselves down to a barely audible hum, before being silenced altogether.

"All right Junior," said Huey as he opened the door and stepped out of the plane, "I've got an old junk heap of a car, a first aid kit and three passengers. You're free to search top to bottom but I promise you guys won't find anything worth your- ulp!"

With a gun pointed in his face, Huey couldn't help but give an involuntary gulp. His eyes darted around the room, revealing that the Sea Duck was surrounded on all sides by the crew of the SIL.

"Hello, Huey Duck and passengers," said the Commodore, standing on a walkway up above, speaking through a megaphone, "Please to be walking out with your hands up and we will not be forced to shoot."

Huey crossed his eyes as he looked into the gaping gun-barrel, held by the thick-looking dog Huey knew to be called "Rand." He slowly turned his head into the plane, moving his hands to where Rand could see them, "Come on out everyone, and be careful about it."

One by one, the small crew of the Sea Duck, Business-attired Dewey, the amateur superhero the Green Phantom, and Webigail Vanderquack the Personal Assistant, stepped out into the hangar, hands in the air. As soon as Dewey walked out, he was grabbed roughly by several SIL men and slammed to the ground.

"OWCH! What's the big idea? You can't do this to me! I'll sue!"

"We got him Commodore!" called up a scraggly cat holding down Dewey's head.

"Excellent." He laughed gaily as he grasped onto a nearby rope and swash buckled his way down to the ground. "The boss men at S.H.U.S.H will be pleased. We have captured the international terrorist Dewey Duck, and his gang of troublemakers."

The four ducks were loud as they demanded explanations for this terrorist business. Huey's was the loudest.

"Have you lost your mind, Kid? Where do you get off calling us terrorists?"

"It is so simple, yes no? You were in Duckburg, Calisota, oh, about a week ago, correct?"

"Yes, but..." began Huey, before something quite like fear crept over his face.

Louie picked up the slack, "You're blaming us for something the Beagle Boys did?"

"Not us," began Kid, "The international community at large has decided to brand you boys as criminals. We just so happen to be the acting arm of the law, come to strike you down, yes no?"

"What are you talking about you incomparable ignoramus?" Yelled Dewey, still pinned to the ground.

"It appears, according to S.H.U.S.H's sources, that the siege on Duckburg by criminals was planned and perpetrated by one man, in a mad grasp for power. A man with enough money and time to plan and train for an event of such scale. Someone with access, perhaps, to the largest pool of money ever collected in one place, hm?"

"I... I would... I'd never!"

"It does not matter what you say. If they say you break a law and I should go after you, then I say you break a law and I come after you. Simple as that." He then rounded on the other three, pushing his hat forward. "Of of course you three are complicit in this, yes?"

With nothing more to say, Louie and Webby clammed up, but Huey's head stayed firmly up in the air. "Bullshit," He said, daring Commodore Kid to come at him.

"So. Telling me to do my job the way you think it should be done? Alright smart guy," He began to approach, a smile appearing on the rust-red fur of his face, "What you gonna do about it? I just know we're gonna put this old antique to good use. Maybe put her in a museum, yes? Or perhaps simply take her apart and use the parts to spruce up the vulture, no? Or perhaps we just melt it down and start over, since I'm sick at the sight of it."

His face was red, and his eyes were wide with rage. This situation was not going his way and he did not like it. His mind raced for words, any words. Cutting, vicious words to come back at this snide man of the law.

"When I get my hands on you, Karnage Junior, I... I'm gonna..."

A big laugh, followed by the entire crew laughing, which only caused Huey's rage to multiply. "This guy thinks he can take me, huh? Calls me Karnage. Who is this Karnage fellow. Surely not the evil, sick, lawless man who ruled the skies forty years ago, no sir. Must mean some other Karnage, yes? I love the law too much to be associated with a man like that, even if I do have a -passing- resemblance to him according o second and third hand accounts. If you say to me words like that you better be able to back them up," His eyebrows raised as his hand hovered near his waist, where a ceremonial sword was hung, "Yes? No?"

Huey stared at the sword, and at the rust-colored hand that fondled the handle, his eyes squinted as he stared. Slowly, he lowered his haunches and raised his fists. The room roared with laughter.

"Huey, no," said Louie, "It's not worth it."

"Shut up, GP."

"YES whoever you are, Shut up!" Said Kid loudly, "Bring me another sword, quickly. We cannot fistfight. You would lose too badly. We shall fight like gentlemen, yes no? With swords."

Soon enough, a sword was thrust into Huey's hands. He fumbled with it for a few seconds, before he dropped it on the floor, to a rousing show of laughs.

"What's wrong, tough guy," taunted Kid, "Pick it up."

Metaphorical smoke poured out of metaphorical ears as Huey picked up the sword slowly. He weighed it in his hand for a moment before he screamed, raising the sword high in the air.

Slice! Huey could suddenly see nobody standing where the Commodore used to be.

"Nice Jacket, Mr. Huey Duck," Kid said, throwing down a bit of brown fluff, "Too bad about the lining."

Huey looked down at his fur-lined collar and gawked. A small section was sliced right off of it with surgical precision. With new resolve and a not reason to rage, Huey began to prepare another strike.

"Observe, men, the common man. Rotted to the core and just a wrong step away from a life of crime, and when back is faced against the wall..." Huey came at him, only to have a button off of his jacket sliced clean off, and held in the commodore's hands. "...He will fight like a rat. No refinement. No Order. Just blind rage."

Louie began to step forward, but a gun at his face settled him down.

"I'll... kill you!"

"And also observe; How the common man's little words fail him. Caught like the rat he is, words, the building blocks of social justice and law, leave his little mouth, bye bye, and are replaced by empty threats."

Huey walked up behind the postulating sky-sailor, and raised his sword to strike him down, only to have an elbow driven into his gut, and a sword's edge at his neck.

"Of of course, he comes from behind, like the filthy, perverted, sick, lawless common man he is." Commodore Kid had begun sweating, not from exertion, for he was clearly only exhibiting the barest minimum of his skill for this fight, but from the passion of the speech. "To sneak up and stab someone in the back, instead of coming before his enemy in the light, that is the way of those who hate the law, yes no?" He grabbed Huey by the neck with an arm and kicked his sword hand, causing the sword to fly away, off into the crowd. "So, you filthy, hateful exile of your own country, will you come peacefully or will I have to..." He put a certain relish to the words that came next, "...cleanse you of my presence?"

It was a tense moment as Huey, his rage leaving him fast as his baser instinct for self-preservation beat out his urge to rearrange the Commodore's face. He dropped his sword, and raised his hands in defeat.

"Ah, and now this common man gives up when there is no way to go on fighting. A coward to the end." He threw Huey to the ground roughly, and sheathed his sword, "Take this and its friends and place them in the Brig. We shall be having accolades all around for this, men."

As the four Ducks were lead, or carried, out of the hangar and towards their new prisons, there was held a cheer for the Commodore. Three cheers for Commodore Kid. Hip-hip-hooray!

***

"If I'd let him keep his goddamn sword I would have had him!" Yelled Huey as he paced the cell, the fire back in his face.

Louie sat on the small, hard bed in the small jail cell. Since Dewey had been thrown next door with Webby, he felt the he could take off his mask and begin to fan himself with it without any significant loss in honor.

"A master swordsman vs. some scrappy fist fighter?" said Louie, "Even among superheroes those are not good odds."

From the next cell over, Dewey yelled, "I hope you realize this is all your fault, whoever you are, Green Phantom."

"Me? What did I do?"

"Isn't is just such a coincidence that wherever we go with you there's some disaster happening."

"Oh, That's just childish, Dewey. You really think I'm doing this?"

"I think you're not helping matters much." Webby shot him a look, which he ignored as he began counting on his fingers. "The Beagle Boys attacked, remember, and there you showed up at my Uncle's money bin with Huey, with barely an explanation."

"That was a coincidence!"

"Of of course, you happened to get there just a -little- too late to stop the Marxists from kidnapping Webby."

"That's not fair. We were going as fast as we could."

Webby, sitting by Dewey, placed her hand gently on his shoulder, "Dewey, perhaps..."

"Not now, Ms. Vanderquack... And now here we are, thrown in the brig with the SIL, somehow having shifted the blame for Duckburg onto me. I don't trust you, Phantom. I don't like you. At least if Louie was coming along I could count on a laugh, but you're just bad news, you hear me?"

"I hear you loud and clear you grimy skinflint."

Huey, unable to threaten Dewey from behind the thick stone wall, could do nothing but try to pacify his two brothers the only way he knew how, "Dewey. I can't believe you haven't guess by now."

Louie's face snapped over to Huey, He had reflexively slammed the mask back onto his face, "Huey! Don't you dare!"

"Guessed what?"

Huey's rage was now being channeled towards something constructive, and he couldn't be stopped now, "About the truth." He leaned back on the barred door of the cell, so he could speak with Dewey more easily.

"And that would be...?"

Louie whispered to Huey, "Don't you dare tell him, Huey. He's the only one still fooled by my disguise. If it gets out that so many people saw through to my secret identity, I'll be the laughing stock of the hero community."

But Huey was too far gone, "The Green Phantom," He leaned harder on the door, poking his head through the bars to try to look towards his brother next door, "is..."

Wham!

"What? Is what?"

But there was no answer, except the Green Phantom's calls, "Huey? Huey? Are you all right?"

Dewey and Webby got up from their seats and walked up to the door. They noticed that Huey and GP's cell next door was open, and that Huey was laying on the floor. "What did you do this time?"

"I didn't do anything. He just fell."

Webby scratched her head, "Well then... maybe..." She then pushed on their own cell door, and, lo and behold, it popped open.

"They weren't locked?"

Louie shook his head, "Impossible, we saw them lock these doors ourselves. Plus these are professionals, they couldn't just..."

"Oh, Huey," said Webby as she knelt down to force one of Huey's eyes open. "He's out cold. Must have been too tired from the fight to take the ground coming at him."

"This could be serious," said the Phantom, "These cells couldn't have just unlocked spontaneously. Someone has freed us."

"But who?"

"I'm checking it out," Louie pointed at Webby sitting with Huey, "You get him up and about as soon as you can. We'll need him to fly the plane."

"R-right."

"I'll find out what's going on. Why haven't we seen any guards around for the past hour or so?"

"Wait a second! I'm coming with you. I don't trust you alone any more than I could throw you."

"Wh-? But...!"

"Stop whining," interrupted Webby, with her finger extended, "Just go."

He grunted, "Fine! Just don't get in my way."

"Only if you don't get in mine first."

Grumbling at their luck, the two bickering Ducks walked on, out of the brig.

***

As the two Ducks walked through the halls, things just got more and more suspicious. The various canine sky-sailors who made up the crew of the SIL ship were there, at their posts, true, and Louie had dived behind a pile of rope when he saw the first of them, but Dewey, on a hunch, had wandered over and pushed the closest man slightly. Like a tree freshly cut down, the SIL man fell over, his hat falling off of his head, revealing the deep blue lumps and bruises all over his face and scalp.

"This guy had a number done on him," said Dewey as the Green Phantom walked up behind him, "What happened?"

"Whatever it was, it happened to those guys too."

Dewey followed the Phantom's pointer finger towards a small group of SIL piled up into a little hill of black and blue bodies. As the two ducks walked up, they could hear the light groans coming from some of the more conscious men.

Without a word, the two brothers looked at each other, before they went on without a word. Both understood somehow that they shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Towards the hangar they went, tracing back he steps they took down to the brig, until they finally made their way towards the large cargo doors. On the other side were voices.

With a nod, and a silent count to three, the two brothers entered into the Hangar as soundlessly as possible, viewing a strange scene indeed.

The Iron Vulture's beak lay open, bathing the entire room in natural, blue sunlight. Around the room there were men strewn about, bent at odd angles. Some weren't moving, and some were cringing and whining in pain. In the center of the room, casting long shadows over the airplanes deeper inside, was Commodore Kid, sword in one hand, gun in the other, fighting a strange, caped character with his back to the boys, causing him to appear to be an amorphous black blob in the bright sunlight. Kid's hat was discarded on the ground, and his uniform had come open, revealing the top of his fuzzy chest. He thrusted his sword towards the weaponless cape, who easily parried, seemingly with nothing at all but his hands.

"Assaulting my men!" Another thrust, easily parried, "Assaulting an officer!" Bang! The gun went off in his hand towards the blob, who was able to anticipate, and knock the gun's aim off course, "Trespassing! Smuggling! Murder! I will break you, whoever you are!"

However, with that final outburst, Kid gave a last attack towards the strange caped man. The long cloak found its way around his face and for a moment, the boys couldn't see what was going on. They heard meaty thumps and groans, before the cape was whipped away from the Commodore. Dazed from the unseen blow, the officer dropped his sword and fell to the ground, beaten and stunned.

Finished, the figure straightened himself out slowly, revealing white feathers on the back of his head. He turned slowly, revealing an orange duckbill. Once his face was in full view, Louie gasped. A single eye, thin and drawn from age and tension, with a small, face-obscuring mask around it. Where the other eye would be, the mask was opaque. The eye followed the small sound of the Green Phantom's gasp, and began to walk towards Dewey and Louie's hiding place.

Thinking fast, Dewey stood to his full height, "Er. Thanks for the help. We were in one hell of a jam there."

The figure said nothing, merely walking towards them. He cracked his knuckles loudly. Louie noticed that he was wearing what appeared to be a superhero costume, although it was very shabby and well-used around the knees and elbows.

"Wait. We're not enemies," said Louie loudly, "We're friends. They were our bad guys too."

No dice. The Duck continued to walk towards them.

"I- I don't think he means well, Phantom."

"I think you're right."

The two of them suddenly rushed away in two different directions. Dewey ran towards a downed SIL officer, and Louie towards a small trophy display he had seen on the way in. At this sudden movement, the one-eyed figure began to rush as well, running after Dewey.

Dewey dove for the SIL's unconscious body and grabbed at the man's pistol. In one fluid motion, he undid the safety catch and rolled onto his back. He raised the gun quickly, only to have it kicked out of his hands by a yellow, grimy boot. That same boot then found its way onto his face, kicking him hard on the side of the bill, making bright lights explode in his vision.

Dewey still had the presence of mind to speak. "Who... Who are..." But he was silenced by the man's leather-gloved fist.

Suddenly, there was a cracking noise, and the black-clad figure straightened out, making a harsh cry of pain. Dewey, still reeling from the blow to the face, looked past the aggressor to see The Green Phantom, waving a long, leather length of cord, a whip, over his head, before bringing it down on the unknown enemy's back once again, crossing with the small lash he had made before.

With a guttural growl, the one-eyed duck turned quickly, with a flourish of his cape. Louie, breathing hard, prepared to brandish the whip once again. With a snap, the whip came down against this new duck's cheek, leaving a thin, bloody stripe. He did not flinch. Pulling back once again, Louie let the whip fly. A black arm came up suddenly, snatching the long, leather whip out of the air and pulling. Louie was unprepared for the surprisingly strong grip that wrenched the handle out of his hand.

Suddenly unarmed, Louie fumbled around his pockets, trying to find something useful for this situation, only succeeding in pulling out the Fingerprint-analyzing metal toilet plunger. Shrugging his shoulders, he gave a guttural war cry to the advancing enemy, raising the metal object high. It sang through the air as it was swung down, towards that one-eyed head.

However, the leather-gloved hand was too fast. It grasped the plunger-carrying hand and twisted. The object fell from Louie's grip as he gave a truncated yell, before a fist was driven into his stomach, and he was allowed to fall to the floor, clutching himself where he had been struck. He felt a warmth flow up his gullet, and soon had regurgitated his Baiano breakfast he had had with José's family before they left.

Staring at the two Duck boys, one dazed and dizzy on the floor, and the other struggling not to let his face dip into a pool of his own sick, the masked stranger scoffed and began to walk towards the opened maw of the Iron Vulture.

"W-wait!" cried Louie, or at least muttered Louie, "who are you?"

The duck went to the edge of the Iron Vulture's beak before he answered, looking towards Louie's masked face with his own.

"A friend."

He then jumped, apparently without aid of parachute, before the Green Phantom blacked out.

***

"Urrh... Ulp! Where!?" Louie screamed.

He sat up like a shot and looked around himself quickly. He was sitting across two seats on the Sea duck, and his head and stomach still felt every blow that had been dealt to him.

"Lou... Phantom," said Webby, "You're awake."

He looked over, seeing that Dewey had had an icepack applied to his head, and was still apparently sleeping.

"What happened?"

"We found you both beaten up in the hangar. We decided to escape. What happened to you and Dewey?" Her emphasis on Dewey's welfare caused Louie to feel bad for hating the bastard so much lately.

"We were blindsided by some guy. A cape, like me, I think. Maybe a villain." Holding his stomach, he sighed, the nausea had not left. "He was... A duck. Older guy too. I don't know... Fifty? Too old to be as good as he was."

"But what did he want? When I found you, you were..."

"I don't know. He... I think he was helping us escape. When we found him he was fighting that crazy Officer, Captain, Commodore guy. But... Owch."

He looked around lazily, "Where are we? Ballpark."

"Last I checked, over Africa. We were able to siphon off enough fuel from the Vulture to get us all the way to Cape Suzette." Webby's voice was quivering as she held the sleeping Dewey's head in her lap. "What happened? Why did those maniacs think Dewey lead the Beagle Boys? It makes no sense at all."

"No. It doesn't, at least not from our perspective." He stood, intending to walk off the pain he still felt in his face and stomach, "But think about how the public feels about it."

"What do you mean?"

"We knew people, people like Uncle Scrooge. We knew all of his flaws and failures, but we were more than willing to look over them when he would give you that little wink and come up with the harebrained scheme to save the day, and let you swim in his bin on his time off. We knew him as this sweet old man with great stories about how he made his fortune, who protected his fortune and principles and his family with every fiber of his being." He gave Dewey a sidelong glance, "But think about how he must have looked from the outside.

"Reclusive, openly hostile towards the media, never gave a penny to charity if he couldn't make a nickel off of it. He was a character all right, and people ate him all up, but they didn't like him. The only thing that saved him from being crucified by the papers were the even worse villains that came after him and his family and money. Dewey is in the same boat."

"He is?"

"He's following in Uncle Scrooge's footsteps to the T... a little too close if you ask me... and the media is just seeing him as a carbon copy. Already, that's points against them in their minds." He sat, all that pacing making him dizzy. "And there isn't nearly as much excitement as there was during Scrooge's time, so there's nothing interesting about him to redeem him from his flaws in the minds of the people. There's no reason they shouldn't believe that he was the one that perpetrated that siege on Duckburg, just because he's clearly a spiteful, vindictive, greedy trust fund baby." Webby glared at him. "Er... At least that's what they're probably thinking."

"So how can we..."

"I don't know. I don't think we can. At least not until we know what actually happened after we left the country. Cape Suzette seems like a good enough place to settle down as any." He leaned back in his seat, his stomach beginning to feel better. "So how long did Huey say this trip would take?"

"Last I heard, he said it would be twelve hours, with a stopover somewhere along the way."

"Ugh. How long ago was this?"

"About a half hour ago."

"Great." He moved his facemask slightly to one side, covering up both of his eyes and making an effective sleep mask. "If Huey starts talking about Maria's tits, make sure to punch him for me."


	8. Episode 8

Episode 8:

In the sunny streets of Duckburg, there was a small, humble hospital. The St. Melody Cancer Hospital for Sad Orphans. It was a catholic-run mission, but operated non-denominationally. The name refers to the exclusive clientele of the up-to-date treatment centers and counseling services. Only orphans with cancer were allowed in, and were treated for free by the kindly sisters of the order of Saint Melody.

In the hospital's 'Learning Wing,' all of the children gather every weekday, promptly, at seven o'clock, to be taught their daily lessons. They sat there, in their little desks or rolling beds, like a carton of eggs with their bald tops and shining faces. In front, the headmistress of lessons, a kindly-faced old dog named Sister Mary Mixolydian, was writing a series of words on the board for that day's vocabulary, when she noticed one of the smaller boys had his hand raised.

"Yes, Paul?" She said, her crinkly little voice letting Paul know that whatever he said was the right thing to say.

"Sister, why haven't we evacuated?" Asked the small boy, "I heard on the radio that Duckburg has been attacked by crooks."

The sister merely smiled and walked up to her young charge, "We can't let an attack by some criminals phase us, children. The aim of this hospital is to give you all the treatment you so desperately need." She walked down the aisle of the class, and the boys and girls couldn't help but want to touch her robes as she went by. "Some of us can't move properly, or are in the middle of treatment, so it would be dangerous for us to get around in the chaos outside. The best we can do is to simply stay here."

She turned as she heard a small, demure knock on the front door. She walked over and opened it, revealing a small girl, bald as an eagle, holding a large cardboard box.

Mixolydian's eyes took on a gently disciplinary quality, "Susan. Class started twenty minutes ago."

"I'm sorry Sister Mary Mixolydian," said the little girl as she stepped into the classroom and set down the box, "I have a good excuse, I promise!"

"Let's hear it then."

"It was my kitty. She was sick last night, but now she's all better." Using her small hands to open up the corners, she let the brown cardboard fold up and over, revealing the contents, "And she had kittens of her own!"

Sure enough, the little white cat was surrounded on all sides by eight little newborn kittens, suckling and mewling at their mother. The orphans callout out in delight and crowded around the box, but nobody was more pleased than Sister Mary Mixolydian.

"Oh! How wonderful! The miracle of life! I... I feel... I feel inspired children, please take your seats." As the boys and girls sat back down, and Susan placed the box carefully on the teacher's desk, the nun rummaged through a small closet. "Such a sweet thing has given me just the inspiration I needed to finish my new song. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes sister!" said the class in chorus.

"Then Vocabulary can come later. It is music time now!"

With a beaming smile underneath her black habit, Mixolydian pulled a guitar out of a black leather case and sat on her desk next to the box of kittens. She began to pluck out a simple, sweet tune, and sand a lilting little melody that made everyone around who heard it feel better about themselves, the world, and god.

Little Billy noticed something by his window, and smiled. He undid the latch and let the window open, letting the cool breezes flow through the class, filled up with music and love. A herd of butterflies and bluebirds which had been perched on the bushes outside began to fly around the classroom, a few coming to rest on the nun's gentle sloping shoulders and head, and the rest circulating around the smiling, gasping classroom. Having gotten the infectious tune in their head, the classroom began to sing along, their sweet voices, honed by years of mandatory choir practice, fell into an easy, instinctive harmony that caused the simple tune to take on all the bad feelings of the world, and turn them upside down.

Then, with a bang, the door to the hall crashed in loudly. The butterflies and birds scattered and escaped through the opened window as into the room poured three men in orange sweaters. One of them pointed a pistol at Sister Mary Mixolydian and fired, striking her in the leg and causing her to drop her guitar, screaming in pain. All of the cancer-ridden orphans, unused to seeing such a violent display of blood splashing from a wound, screamed in terror. One of the children managed to swallow a passing butterfly, and began to choke, causing the nearby children to try performing CPR on him, adding to the hysterical nature of the class.

Braincase Beagle blew the smoke from the barrel of the gun, "I love my job."

***

The noble blue of the officer's uniform clashed violently against the dark blacks of his elite SWAT team, coated in riot gear, with batons and long clear shields. Underneath his hat was the thinning mop of salt and pepper hair, steadily turning prematurely grey from the stress of the streets. The dog was a bit paunch, but had the look of someone who at one time was absolutely in control of every movement their body made, and at the moment could still run rings around people half his size.

His team stood at attention in a line on the road outside of Duckburg. It was dark outside, but the light from the full moon and the riots in the city was more than enough to illuminate the captain as he spoke.

"Men. We are the finest officers Saint Canard's force has. Our sister city is in trouble and needs all the help It can get. This is primarily a rescue mission in junction with the local authorities. You each have been briefed on the situation. Move out!"

With a salute, each man piled onto the huge, black vans. The three carts drove into the city quickly, and disappeared over the horizon and into the city. Alone now, the Captain took off his hat and began to fan himself with it as a bulwark against the muggy night.

"Good evening Captain O'Hara."

The officer jumped about two feet in the air before turning around and trying to find the source of the noise. He saw the masked man sitting on the edge of the roof of his squad car.

"Darkwing Duck, you must quit sneaking up behind me like that. Where have you been?"

"Sorry Cap," she said, "I had to be elsewhere. Status on the attack?"

Mopping his brow with a sleeve, Captain O'Hara nodded his head, "Right. The Saint Canard Strike team has just rode into town. The National guard and various agents of that secret agent thing, 'Swoosh' or something, they're in there. The BBs have been driven and isolated to one area of the city."

"The part of the city with Saint Melody's Hospital for adorable collateral damage, you mean?"

"Er, yes. That's why I called you here. We need a superhero's touch for this one."

"Funny, usually the boys in blue don't want us anywhere near their cases. Especially volatile hostage situations."

"Normally, yes. But we're desperate." his nerves twanging, Captain O'Hara began to pace back and forth in front of the police blockade. "All of my men and the national guard are occupied in cleaning up other parts of the city, and 'swatch' is taking a backseat role, trying to find more evidence against Dewey Duck."

She eyeballed the police captain from her perch, "Is there anything to that, Cap?"

"The suits I talked to said it was a lock. Dewey Duck was behind it. Rich little Dewey. I remember when I was a young man following the 'McDuck stories' in the papers. I can't believe that little kid grew up to be a crime lord." He sighed harshly and placed the hat back on his head. "My kids were terrified when I told them about him. Said they always knew he looked like a bad guy. Reminds me of when my dad used to tell me about that famous 'Phantom Blot' case when we used to live in Mouseton..."

"I'd love to hear about Mouseton, I really would, but If I'm going to save a hospital full of Nuns and Orphans, I'd better get started..."

"Just one more thing before you go."

"Oh." Darkwing leaned back on the siren lights. "I never like the sound of 'one more thing.' What is it?"

"I don't want you working alone, so I've gotten some of the local color to assist you. He should be arriving any minute now."

"Cap, you know I work solo."

"Not this time you don't."

Suddenly, there was a revving sound, like a racecar at the starting line, getting ready to drag out. Captain O'Hara's face lit up.

"Here he is now."

"BLATHERING BLATHERSKITE!" called a heroic voice resonating through the night air. Darkwing found her head in her hands.

"Not him. Anyone but..."

"Never fear citizens!" Said the voice, dripping with self-important heroism, "Gizmoduck is here!"

He was a duck, true to his name, and shone silvery white from the top of his visored helmet to the bottom of his torso, which ended in a strange unicycle. As he approached as speeds upwards of Mach 3, he screeched to a halt, stopping on a dime and kicking up a cloud of dust which completely failed to stick to and tarnish his shiny look.

"Captain O'Hara I presume. And... ah!" His voice took on a barely disguised quality of annoyance, "Darkwing Duck."

Darkwing sighed, then jumped down off of the car, "Don't get your wheelie in a twist, Goody one-wheels. We've got some hostages to save."

"Indeed! Climb on my back. I can carry you."

"I would rather take myself if you don't - URK!"

"I insist!" said the metallic wonder as he picked up Darkwing Bodily and slung her over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, "Farewell Captain. We will be back in a jiffy."

"Thanks Cap. You're a real peach."

And with that, the two heroes were wheeling off into the city, disappearing as they screeched around a bend. O'Hara sighed, crossing his arms as he watched them go, before turning and climbing into his car, silently both thanking and lamenting those crazy superheroes his town seems to churn out.

***

All of the children had been stuffed to the gills inside of the small rehab clinic. Beds had been wheeled in containing the sicklier patients, and little Susan was still watching over her box, containing her cat and her kittens. The nuns were all bunch over on one side of the room, nursing an ailing Sister Mary Mixolydian .

Boner and Ballast had taken up guard duty over the two groups, Ballast pointing his large chain gun at the bald children, and Boner holding a shotgun, while leering at the defenseless nuns.

"Can't I take one of them out back, Braincase? Can't I?" he said, "I won't hurt her much. She'll still be good as a hostage." Sweat percolated on his brow as he spoke. "Remember the nuns as Saint Brute's Braincase? I never forgot them. C'mon. Just this once, for Sister Crankshaft."

"No, Dummy!" yelled the diminutive Braincase Beagle, who was pacing around the room with a handheld radio, waiting for a call from the negotiators to trumpet his demands, "I need you to stand guard. If you're dick-deep in some nun when the cops come we need you there."

"Awwww, Braincase."

"That is final."

Suddenly, the conversation was cut off by a droning buzz over the radio. "Hello, Hello. Come in Beagle Boys."

"Shut up birdbrains," He yelled to his two companions, "It's the fuzz come to pay the piper. Hello?"

"We've come to discuss the terms of the release of the hostages."

With a wide smile across his face, Braincase began to speak smoothly into the radio, "We want two million... no. Three million dollars. Each. In cash. And no funny business with marked bills. We want a helicopter for our getaway, and the release of all of the Beagles you fellas have imprisoned today. Got me?"

There was a gulp on the other end of the line, "Not, Braincase, was it? That's quite a bit..."

"Save it, spanky. Those are the terms. If not, we got bombs hidden all over the place, and we'll take the entire building with us if we notice any funny business. Good. Bye."

"H-hey. Wai-" But it was too late. Braincase had taken the batteries out of the radio and placed them down on a nearby table.

"Alright, Boys. Now we wait for paydirt to flow right into our hands."

Over the laughs and cries of happiness resounding from the Beagle's below, the shadowy form of Darkwing Duck nodded. Bombs, huh? We've got to...

***

"...Find and disarm them." Darkwing, sitting, crouched on the edge of the roof like a purple gargoyle, spoke to Gizmoduck, who, it seems, never heard of the concept of stealth. "They'll lose an important bargaining chip, and..."

"What of the hostages?"

"Bombs are more important than hostages."

"I respectfully disagree."

"Too bad," said Darkwing, cutting him off before he could give out his reasons, "If we don't take out the bombs, we'll have to worry about them killing us and the hostages. If we do, We'll only have to take out the hostages."

"But every moment we wait on the hostages is another moment something truly terrible could happen."

Her lithe fingers came up to touch her forehead as she spoke. "Are we really going to argue about this?"

"Apparently."

"Listen, Gizmo, Here's a compromise. You keep the Beagles busy. Make sure they don't blow the place up. I'll try to find all the bombs. Is that a good enough plan for you."

The silver-plated arms crossed slowly. "I suppose it's workable."

"Alright." She then held out her hand, "You got any gizmo to figure out where the bombs actually are?"

"Of course. One moment!"

Gizmoduck pressed a button on his chest, and a large satellite popped out of his head. For a moment it seemed like he would lose has balance due to the new top weight, but he managed to stay up on his wheel. The dish spun around for a moment, and a loud printing noise emanated from his chest. Soon, a long sheaf of paper was spit out onto the ground, which Darkwing Duck picked up and looked over.

"Good. Thanks. I'll see you after -I've- saved the day."

She then jumped off the side of the building. Gizmoduck, not to be outdone, rolled over to the edge and called out, "Not if I save it first!"

***

The muffled rustle of the cape was the only sound as the terror that flaps in the night worked her way through the air ducts, and towards the first bomb. After hitting an intersection, she stopped and looked around. In the cloying dark, she saw a small red light blinking off and on.

She approached, and saw, behind a slow-moving fan circulating air through the ducts, a bundle of dynamite attached to an old fashioned alarm clock by three wires.

Dad, Began Darkwing Duck, starting to work on the bomb, Are you there? It's me. Gosalyn. I'm sorry I don't talk to you so often anymore, but I've been so busy with work. I suppose you'll want to hear about every little thing that's happened.

There's this boy I like. Don't look at me like that, Dad, it's not like that. I'm sure you would like him. He's a bit of an idiot, but, well, he has his moments. He is older than I am by... Well. A lot. Oh Dad, please don't judge until after you've met him. He's a nice boy, I promise.

He's another cape, by the way. I don't know if I mentioned that. He calls himself the Green Phantom. Good name, but he's at a point where he doesn't know what he should focus on. He's got all these silly little toys. Did I mention he's loaded? Oh. That makes me sound so shallow. Forget I said that.

Anyway, I'm doing well. I'm sweating it up in the air ducts of a hospital trying to remember if it's the red wire or the blue wire, but I'm doing just fine. It's nobody you ever tangled with, if you're curious. It's in Duckburg. They don't get as much cape activity as we do in Saint Canard. Just crooks, the Beagle Boys, they call them. Big old gang of lifers. You would like them. You don't feel guilty when you punch them.

Since I called I've gone up against a couple of your old buddies. Green Phantom got blindsided by Bushroot. He's doing fine. He doesn't seem to age, but that stupid flytrap seems to get bigger and bigger every time I see it. Then GP got us a lead against, get this, that old whore-monger Steelbeak. Turns out it led him all the way to Brazil, and beyond. Oh, look at me. I feel like I'm blushing. Why am I talking about Louie? (That's his real name, Louie. Louie Duck.) I've got a bomb to diffuse.

Changing the subject. I'm teaming up with Gizmoduck right now. He seemed to get even worse than when you teamed up with him, if that's possible. It's almost like they're not the same person. I'm starting to wonder if he's a legacy hero like me.

Dad? Dad. I'm sure you're watching out for me. Dad. Please. I want to see Louie again. I don't know why. He's such a... such an incompetent nutcase... but... but I need to disarm this bomb. I'm sweating Dad. Help me. Help me...

Snip.

Darkwing flinched, but nothing happened. No flash, no boom. She sighed, letting out the big breath she had been holding in as she had let her eyes wander.

One down, four to go, Gosalyn said to her imaginary father, See you again in about five minutes.

***

"Come on, Braincase," said Boner, stroking the barrel of his shotgun lasciviously, "Just one nun. One nun won't hurt the plan none, will it?"

"For the last time you cock-brained moron. No."

"C'moon. Please? I'll give you my share of the profits. This is one of my all-time fantasies." He tried to think of any other ways to sweeten the deal. "I'll even take the one with the leg wound. Nobody will miss her."

Braincase turned quickly and looked up into his brother's eyes. There was such hope there behind the cheap domino mask, that the Napoleonic beagle couldn't help but groan at the very sight of it.

"Ooooh all right. Take her. You've got twenty minutes, you hear me?"

"Yippee!" Boner cried, "C'mere sister."

Sister Mary Mixolydian was too weak from blood loss to properly fight off the beagle when he picked her up by the waist and slung her over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. The other sisters, however, stood and began to approach.

"Not ONE step, ladies," yelled Braincase, "Or Ballast turns your kiddies into Swiss cheese."

Instantly, the nuns backed down, with twin looks of fear and concern towards their young charges and to their Sister in distress. They had no choice but to watch in horror as Boner Beagle walked out into the hall, not even waiting until he was out of the room to begin undoing his pants.

Braincase quickly stepped up his game, now having one less guy to control the hostages with, "Now sit down, chickies, or I'll let him have another one of you. Get me?"

The sisters sat quickly, not wanting to risk the amorous advances of the predator outside. However, all of the heads in the room turned towards the exit door as a scream pierced the night. A man's scream. A very high-pitched man's scream.

Ballast giggled, and Braincase out-and-out laughed. "Well she must have gotten a tooth in or something."

"Think again villains!"

Crash! A Boner Beagle-shaped hole appeared in the wall next to the door frame, from the force of Boner crashing through it at high speeds. From the other side of the frame, a Gizmoduck-shaped hole appeared.

"It's that tin-can! Get him, Ballast!"

The fat Beagle raised the large gun to shoot down the new comer, but Gizmoduck was faster on the draw. A giant magnet appeared out of his arm and pulled the large metal gun towards him. Quickly, millions of tiny metallic hands reached out from everywhere on the power-armored duck's body. Each tendril snaked out and grasped a bit of the gun, mercilessly ripping it apart and hiding the pieces away inside the armor, to be used and processed by the suit's near limitless potential. Soon, all that was left was the wood in the handle and the gunpowder from the bullets, both of which fell to the ground.

"MY GUN!" said Ballast, in a deep booming voice. His eyes then began to tear up, as if his mother had just been killed.

Braincase stared at his two brothers, one writhing on the ground in pain, and the other crying like a baby over a gun. He fumbled in his pockets quickly.

"Don't come any closer, Tin-face, or I'll start the timers on the bombs, blow this place sky high!"

"Nice plan, Birdbrain," said another voice up above, "One little problem with it though."

At that moment, an alarm clock, useless and ticking fell to the ground from a ventilator up above Braincase. It struck the ground with a harsh shattering sound, and clockwork flew out from behind the glass face. Braincase stared at the clock, and his vision slowly scanned upwards towards the vent, where the face of Darkwing Duck beamed down.

"Darkwing. You've finished so quickly!" called Gizmoduck, "I haven't even finished off this brigand yet."

"I had... inspiration." She quickly changed the subject by jumping out of the vent, executing a quick somersault in the air, before landing in a crouch in front of the group of nuns. "Give it up Braincase. It's over. I've disarmed all of the bombs."

"N-not all of them!" He then reached into his pocket quickly, withdrawing a small, plastic button, pressing it before either hero could react. "Ha!"

"I got all five bombs, genius. Give it up. You've lost."

"HA! That's what you think! There were six- Ack!"

A giant hammer extended from Gizmoduck's chest, knocking Braincase on the braincase, causing him to crumple to the ground. The children cheered as Braincase went down, and the Nuns couldn't help but give a smile.

"Gizmo!" screamed Darkwing, "There's another bomb! Why did you knock him out? He could have told us where it was!"

"I didn't like his attitude. Besides, I can tell you where it is."

"You couldn't find it before. You said there were only five bombs. We have... five minutes to find and disarm one last bomb. It could be anywhere."

Gizmoduck thought for a moment, before he snapped his metallic fingers, "Ah-ha!" Another dish, subtly different from the last one, began to spin atop his head. Slowly, but steadily, he began to roll towards the children, towards little Susan, before coming to a stop in front of the cardboard box. He began beeping violently, his satellite dish pointing downward, squarely at the brown box.

"What did you search for?"

"Holes in my instruments. When anything interferes with my sensors, it will leave a conspicuous hole in my perception. I can track those. This box has had strips of lead placed all around it."

"Convenient," said Darkwing Duck, as she swooped towards the box.

"Please," said a sweet little voice of the bald little girl looking over the box, "Be careful of Kitty."

"What?" She said, as she opened the box, before she suddenly understood what that meant.

There, within the box, was the bundle of dynamite. Tiny little balls of fluff lounged around , played, and slept around, beside, and on top of it, revealing no clear way to the wires inside.

"Kittens?" said Gizmoduck.

"Do you have a 'dismantle bombs quick' device in there?"

"Nothing that wouldn't hurt the kittens inside."

"NO! Don't hurt Kitty's kitties." Screamed Susan, tears streaming down her face.

Darkwing raised her arms, "Fine! Fine. I can disarm it by hand. Gizmo. Get everyone out of here."

"Right-o!" he said, before he began the process of herding the sick children out of the room, getting the Nun's help in wheeling the large hospital beds out through the wide doors.

As she listened to the commotion, she pulled out a pair of thin wire cutters and hunched over the box, reaching inside.

"MROWRR!" Yelled the voice of the kitten's mother, who scratched out at the hand.

"Gah!" Darkwing cried, but to the ears of only a few straggling Nuns. Everyone in the room had been herded out, thankfully, so her pride was intact. She looked at her hand, where a thin line of blood had appeared.

"All right, kitty. I'm here to save your life within two minutes." She began to reach her hands inside again, clearing newborn kittens off of the red sticks of dynamite, "I'm not going to hurt your babies, so stop... OWCH!" She tried not to flinch, as her hand was bitten by the angry mother. Her other hand, her left, grabbed the wire cutters before she could drop tem and began to wield them, putting them as close as she could to where the wires attached to the bomb.

Okay, Dad, She though, If this bomb is like the others... "OWCH. Good kitty!" ... then it should be... Red-blue-green-yellow.

The listing off of the sequence of colors launched her mind into a fit of terrified nostalgia. A song, a nursery tune, sung to her almost every night for the first few years of her life, and sporadically after that. The thought of the tune, the quickly fading last memories of her grandfather, and the still fresh memories of her newer one, acted to steady her hand and drown out the pain of the cat scratches and bites.

Close your eyes, little girl blue. Inside of you lies a rainbow. Yellow. Blue. Red. Blue. Purple too. Blue purple and green and yellow.

Snip. Snip. "OWCH!" Snip. Snip.

She breathed, falling backwards. The bomb was disarmed, the kittens safe, and Duckburg was finally cleansed of its little Beagle problem. She stretched her neck muscles, which were aching from stress, but found that when she moved to the left, she felt something cold and thin over it. She froze, finally sensing the body behind her just as a large, sweaty hand closed over her chest.

"I thought there was something fishy about you Darkwing. You're a chicky." Boner Beagle laughed, making the knife in his hand wiggle. "I may not have gotten to have my Nun-fantasy, but I suppose my super heroine fantasy is just as good." He licked his lips, causing Gosalyn to cringe at the wet noise near her ears.

"Oh, Boner. You've just done the stupidest thing you ever could."

Her head came backwards quickly, smashing into the amorous Beagle's nose. Blood spurted out, and the crook dropped the knife in surprise. He yelled out as he tried to hold back the flow from his nose with his hands as a quick kick to the ribs threw him to the ground.

Without a word, Gosalyn left the room, taking the disarmed bomb with her for proper disposal. Around her, a steady stream of policemen rushed in, pointing their machine guns at the three Beagles and screaming for them to stand down or be shot.

***

Some time later, Gizmoduck, using his retractable adhesive wheel cover, was rolling up the side of a tall building. He went at excess speeds, keeping his balance the whole way thanks to the supports built into the spinal column of the suit, until he finally came to the lip of the roof and rolled straight over, righting himself in the process.

There, crouching on the side of a water tower, was Darkwing Duck.

"I suppose we did well," she said.

Gizmo seemed peeved off by her very presence, "Captain O'Hara was disappointed to see you sneak off after the situation. He wanted to give us both medals."

"I don't like medals. They make me stand out in the crowd too much."

Gizmo grunted and crossed his arms, "That doesn't sound like the Darkwing I remember."

"The fact that you're standing there staring at me and just now might think something is a bit different makes me doubt very much that you ever met Darkwing Duck before you and I first met."

Gizmo was visibly robbed of speech after this, and sputtered with what to say next.

"Stop. I know. 'I'm the only Gizmoduck you need concern yourself with' or whatever. I'm the same way." She then stood and pulled out her bow, knocking an arrow with a rope attached. "Thanks for the help today. When we stay out of each other's way we make a good team."

"I suppose so."

Without another word, she fired off the grappling arrow, letting it sail off into the night until it latched onto something. She then began to swing away, off towards the Audubon Bay Bridge to make her way back home to Saint Canard.

Gizmoduck, on the other hand, stayed for a moment, breathing in the night air, still tinged with smoke from the recently quelled flames. He turned on a dime and began to make his way down the side of the building with his adhesive wheels, in the direction of the Duckburg trailer park.

Through the now empty streets he rolled, a beacon of hope in the town, and a hero for his part in the hostage situation today. He rolled on for a solid half-hour before he came to rest in front of an empty, abandoned trailer hitch with the name "Ma Crackshell" written above it. He stared up at the name and wondered briefly at its significance, before he pressed a button on his arm, which caused a hidden elevator under the "welcome" mat to lower him down.

***

Down, down, down he went, deep underneath the subterranean caverns that Gizmoduck had carved out underneath the trailer park he used as a base of operations. The plush-carpet of the elevator stopped and let the hero off at the bottom, where there was a collection of what must have been trophies from earlier adventures in Gizmo's career. A Beagle Boy's mask, dropped in the haste to get away. A residue of magic powder from a run-in with the sorceress Magica DeSpell. Freeze Rays, Heat rays, Giant versions of several different countries' coins. Gizmo passed them all by at an unaffected clip.

Soon, the armored Duck came across a set of computer consoles that illuminated the darkened cave. At the large keyboard of the wide, tall computer that dominated the display, there was a man, a duck, sitting in a wheelchair with his back to the hero.

"You're back," said the voice, grumpy and wise.

"I am. The Beagle Boys have been driven out of the city. I got some help from Darkwing Duck."

The figure seemed to perk up, "Darkwing. Interesting."

"I think that's about all I can do for tonight, Mr. Crackshell. Can I go now?"

The figure turned his wheelchair revealing a tall, thin duck with a lined face exhibiting a tough expression. He was seated very firmly in the chair, with a blanket over his useless legs.

"Not yet. There is one more thing I need."

Gizmoduck sighed lightly, but nodded, "Yes. Anything, Mr. Crackshell."

"I have gotten a call from an old friend. It seems he does not feel as safe as he once did, what with Dewey Duck still at large. He would like to interview you as a possible bodyguard."

"But sir, That would interfere with my nightly patrols. Can't he hire..."

"Quiet, boy!" The duck snapped, causing the armored duck to flinch backwards. "This man is in real danger. You must keep him safe, and do whatever he tells you. Understand?"

"Y-yes sir."

"Good." Fenton Crackshell then turned back towards the computer and struck a key, making the fancy operating system whiz around until it settled on a photograph of a young tiger. "His name is Farid Kagan. You will take the next flight out to Bombay tonight."

"Can't I change out of my costume first?"

"No. You will be met by a car. You can sleep when Mr. Kagan says you can sleep. Understand boy?"

"Y-yes sir."

"Good. Don't forget what I did for you, boy, or why I chose you to take up my work."

"I... I don't. I won't forget. I'm going now, Sir." Gizmoduck, the second to wear the name, turned and started towards the back of the cave, back through the trophy room, and up the elevator.

Fenton Crackshell twined his fingers together and leaned his elbows on the table. He stared up at the face of the tiger, which stared down at him. Both made no signs of emotion at all.


	9. Episode 9

Episode 9:

The room was sealed away. Sealed from the deep, permanent winter outside, as well as from its sardonic, cold people, beaten down into a uniform march of society by the ways of utility and totality. Within, the faint glow of magic warmed the freezing house. Muttered sighs of incantations and fantastic waves of fingers and hands punctured the quickly warming air, pushing against the sealed windows, trying to find a way out of the stuffy hut and out and up to the heavens.

Soon, the glow became golden, and soon after, red. Two items laid in the center of the room, illuminating it with the duel colors, obscuring their form with their sheer brightness. A dry cackle emanated from the throat of the spell-weaver as wrinkled, ancient fingers hovered over the burning glow of the twin objects.

This was two weeks before our story began, in the small, independent nation of Thembria, where plans made beneath cloak and by dagger were status quo for much of the populace.

***

"Welcome to Cape Suzette!" called Huey as he opened up the passenger door on the Seaduck, letting his three companions out into the sunny equatorial embrace of the island paradise.

First Huey, then Webby, then Louie, cursing his luck for once again being stuck in a warm, damp climate in a costume made for cold city nights. Each passenger looked around for a moment to take in the tall, attractive architecture, letting the grandeur of it fill their eyes before the emptiness and eroded nature of them became apparent.

"All of these buildings," said Dewey, his mind's eye mentally adding up, deducting expenses, and finding all the tax write-offs it could, "They just stand empty?"

"'fraid so," answered Huey, "World War Two knocked this place back to the stone ages, and nobody has bothered to try rebuilding."

Webby sighed. "Shame. It's so beautiful here."

"Those buildings are quite dilapidated, but with the right gumption, this island could make for a nice tourist resort." Dewey scratched his chin, the dollar signs beginning to etch their ways into his eyes. "Who owns them?"

Huey smirked and began to walk towards the shack near the docks where a large sign for "Higher for Hire" was written. "Well, considering the company that used to have most of this town in its back pocket was bought out by a certain 'McDuck Enterprises,' I'd say most likely you do, Dewey."

If they were etching before, those dollar signs were full-on blazing brands of possibilities now, "Yes. Khan Industries." He then blinked, a thought surfacing from his greedy haze, "But why didn't Uncle Scrooge do anything with it if he owned it? It's not like him not to try turning a profit with everything he had."

"Cold war happened," volunteered the Green Phantom, "The island was broken and abandoned after World War Two. If the Russians ever get around to launching part three, there may be no more island left. Not a very safe investment."

"Probably saving it for later," mused Dewey. "After the East and the West have cooled off he would have set up a little paradise here. I could do that, couldn't I?" For an ever so brief moment, Dewey was smiling, looking up at the crumbling skyline as if it was an entire world of riches and treasures waiting to be explored and uncovered. "The Cold War won't last forever, will it? Afterwards I can set up here, make a... a historical playground. This place has one hell of a history after all. Sky piracy, adventure. For the wannabe adventurers I could have daily airplane tours in vintage planes like the Sea Duck. For vacationers, there's the beachside and constant sun. It's a lock, it is. I could take this little lump of land and... and..." in the middle of his reverie, his face suddenly fell.

Webigail, who's own face had been brightening up steadily at her boss's sudden change in mood, similarly switched to a concerned expression quickly. "Dewey...?"

"But... but..."

Louie cut in, "But nothing doing if you're on the lamb. They'll take away your business, leave you with nothing. No business, not resort, no gold mine..."

"Enough, GP," admonished Huey, lightly, although his face was clearly sympathetic, "C'mon gang. I want you all to meet someone."

***

"Hey. Old man! I'm home."

"Good," Said the bear is a small voice, "Come over here."

Huey seemed to pause for a moment as the other three ducks piled into the room. His brows arched, and for a moment something seemed amiss. He then shrugged.

"Anything happen while I was gone?"

"Yes. Productivity in the community is up 15%. Sit. You must fill out paperwork."

Huey laughed, "Paperwork? You never bother with that stuff."

"It must be done."

Throughout all of this, Kit Cloudkicker did not look up from his seat at the desk of Higher for Hire. The entire office was, for once, immaculately clean and clear of debris. He was steadily and quickly working through a stack of papers.

"Er... anyway, that can wait. I want you to meet my Brothers... Brother, and a few of my friends..."

"It must be done," was Kit Cloudkicker's reply as he placed a finished document on the out pile and retrieved a blank one from the in file.

Louie raised an eyebrow and whispered to Huey, "Real side splitter you got here, Huey."

"You. Quiet." He turned to the bear, "Old man. C'mon. Ain't you even gonna say hi?"

"It must be done. Personal matters may come on my own time."

"B-but... Old man..." Huey's hackles had begun to rise. This was obviously something new.

"It must be done." He finished another document, and retrieved a blank one from the in pile.

"Stop saying that! What's wrong?" Huey ran around the desk and touched Kit Cloudkicker on the arm, "Are you feeling alright?"

"Productivity in the community is up 16%. I am alright."

"Listen, Huey, I'm glad to see someone with such a wonderful work ethic, but is there a phone around here?" Dewey's eyes darted towards the disconcerting figure at the desk, then back to Huey. "I'd like to try to get a hold of someone in Duckburg, to try to see where I stand in all of this."

"Sure, Dewey, here." Huey began to raise up the phone, an old rotary phone, to bring towards Dewey, when a large, graying brown hand slammed it back down on the table.

"What the hell, Old man!"

"No personal calls."

"What?"

"No personal calls. This is community time."

There was silence. Huey's brand of silence was just a little angrier than the others', and his face showed it. Dewey cleared his throat.

"I... I can find another phone." He began to back out of the room. "Don't worry about it."

Motivated partially by the need to find a working phone and the need to get out of the creepy atmosphere of the room, Dewey turned and walked briskly out of the shack.

***

The midday rush of people had started by the time Dewey had found, and subsequently passed by, a payphone out in the street. On his search for a phone he didn't have to drop a dime on, he had begun to look around at all the people, mostly native islanders, with a few old white men like Kit Cloudkicker still sticking around. Dewey had to say he was puzzled. It was around lunchtime, and everyone walked towards large soup tureens set up on every corner in the city. It seems that everyone in the entire city was taking their lunch at the exact same moment, regardless of what job they had to do. The men, and it was almost entirely men, lined up at the soup stands, standing rail straight and looking straight ahead at the back of the head in front of them. With each man who took a bowl and wandered off, the line shortened by one, and every man in it took a single, uniform step, shortening the line by one man. The overall effect was of a big clockwork device, with bowls of soup instead of cuckoos.

Dewey began to sweat as he wandered among the men who quite conspicuously paid him no mind. In his nice, if not clean, executive suit and tie, he stood out among these flannelled and work-shirt-clad man like a sore thumb, and his constant looking around contrasted horribly with the dead, unfocussed vision of each man drinking his soup.

Something funny is going on here, thought Dewey, I at least hope someone will let me use their phone for free.

Suddenly, there was a piercing steam whistle. Dewey covered her ears and gasped, looking around for the source. Every man's gaze, formerly unfocussed and nearly dead, suddenly snapped back on like a light bulb. As a man, they all walked with resolute purpose towards the soup tureens, depositing their empty bowls on the table, before walking in a hundred different directions towards whatever job they needed to continue. The entire dance caused Dewey to scratch his head in puzzlement, and wondered if he could grab up a couple of these devoted, yet creepy, workers on the cheap.

Then, there was a scream. Dewey looked around, and in the sea of men walking down the sidewalks, there was a single figure moving in the opposite direction, swimming against the tide of workers. He broke away from the crowd, falling to the ground in the gutter, before scrambling to his feet.

He was an Orangutan, with bright red fur all over and arms for days. He was quite young, and he looked quite fit. He had freckles thrown all over his face and bare shoulders. He pumped his legs, running towards Dewey Duck with a resolute purpose quite opposite from the calm determination of the soulless ones he ran among.

"You! You're not one of them are you?" He cried, grasping Dewey by the hands and falling to his knees, "Thank goodness. Thank goodness!"

"What's going on?"

"I... I don't know. It started... Everyone just started... They're mindless... I can't... You gotta help... I can't... It started..."

Dewey gave him a ripe crack across the cheek, snapping him out of his babbling stupor, before he spoke again, "What's going on around here."

"I don't know. We all... We just woke up one morning and everyone was like... this. Nobody speaks to each other." Tears of fear began to form in the young man's eyes. "We all thought it would pass, but... but it spreads. It's like a disease."

"What is? What is going on around here?"

"Help me! You're the first person I've seen in days. You just flew in on that plane, right? Please." He grabbed the lapels of the duck's jacket. "Please. Take me with you! I don't want to turn into Them!"

"Turn into..." Dewey looked around, touching the man's shaggy hands, "D-don't worry. I can get help."

"Oh god. O please help me... H-help... me..."

And suddenly, the man's eyes began to loll up into the back of his head. The hands gripping Dewey's jacket tightened like vices, before the ape's entire body began convulsing. Dewey tried to call for help as the man, attached to his clothes, worked through a severe seizure. Gently, Dewey grabbed the man by the shoulders and laid him down, alternating between crying for someone to come, and trying to get him to calm down by yelling at him.

Soon, the convulsions subsided, and the grip on the lapels loosened. The man's arms fell limply to his side, and Dewey feared the worst.

"Mister. Hey. Hey, you. Wake up. Don't... Don't die on me." He shook the supine man by his shoulders, trying to rouse him awake. "Come on. You have to tell me what's going on."

Quick as lightening, a hand shot up to grasp Dewey's wrist, causing his heart to skip a beat. The Ape's eyes were glazed and unmoving, exactly like the men waiting in line for soup before.

"Nothing is going on. Productivity in the community has just raised 2.2%."

Without another word, and with no fighting from Dewey, the Ape stood, acquiring that empty sense of task and purpose that had been summoned by the steam whistle, before he turned and began to walk steadily towards his job.

Dewey sat in the gutter, his eyes wide in vague terror. For the moment he had forgotten the phone, and now just wanted to get help. He ran back towards Higher for Hire, hoping to tell his brother, and, even more hopefully, that superhero. This seemed right up his alley.

***

Him? Here?

The clear glass bowl was filled to the sides in cool water, and in the faintest drop of ink, it was revealed the mysteries of all time and space. It had focused its all-seeing vision on the form of a blue-clad Duck with feathery chops on either side of his beak.

No. It is not him, and yet... I sense some kind of great power in this one. Could it be one of the three brats?

It is of no consequence. Nothing can interrupt my plan. Nothing.

***

Slam! The door to Higher For Hire swung open, rattling the door frame. Dewey stood in the archway, looking around quickly. The office was empty, devoid of both family and friends, and with only a half worked through pile of papers to show that someone was here.

"Huey?" He called out into the lonely office. "Ghost? Are you there?" he began to step inside, letting the door close gently behind him. His fingers itched for a trigger to grasp on to just in case of an ambush, but alas, he had left Scrooge's musket in the Sea Duck. His voice cracked a bit. "Ms. Vanderquack?"

He jumped a mile in the air as he heard the piercing tone of a steam whistle outside, just ever so subtly different from the whistle he had heard at lunch. He ran to the nearest window and looked out, nearly dropping to the floor right there from surprise.

Moored to the docks, dwarfing all of the boats and airplanes similarly moored all over the lagoon, a massive black carrier floated in the water. The boat was big enough for a small town to live on for several months, and the width of its hull couldn't have fit through the thin canyon even on a good day. Dewey thought such things for a moment, before having the presence of mind to duck down under the window frame as, it seems, an entire army unloaded onto the island. An Invasion!

The soldiers were predominantly boars in identical bright red uniforms. Dewey recognized the flag up above as belonging to a small country adjacent to the Soviet Union, which had been able to avoid getting absorbed into the union proper, having hashed out a treaty early in the USSR's life, and by being a good little Bolshevik county. It was called Thembria.

As the men marched down to the shore, another tightly packed army was marching against them. They were all in civilian clothes, but walked in step, two-by-two, as if they were the most precision-trained army in the world. The townspeople of Cape Suzette, under some strange power, began to march their way onto the ship. It was then that Dewey saw a flash of bright red and green. Next to each other, Huey and the Green Phantom marched side-by-side, followed by Webigail. All three of them had that empty look about their eyes, letting Dewey know that whatever was going on had happened to them as well.

As he watched, both armies stopped, and a small man in a high-ranking uniform broke off from the group, approaching the line of motionless civilians. He gave the nearest one an order, and he dutifully bent over. The short man then inspected the civilian's teeth. He seemed to nod and give a gesture, and the entire line of plainclothes people began to march in step towards the ship.

There was sweat upon Dewey's brow as he thought quickly. He had to get on that ship. He couldn't let his Brother and PA get kidnapped by communists, and even that other guy deserved a shot. Stepping lightly, he was soon out the door, spotting the long procession of afflicted civilians walking towards the black ship. He slowed down his gait to match the brisk pace of the marching line and began to walk alongside, keeping his eyes on the line of workers. As he sidled closer, but the tight line of people was too close in to allow him access.

"STOP!" yelled a voice. The entire line screeched to a halt as the short officer walked up, "We've got a straggler."

Another, lower ranking officer walked up, "Kinda puny, isn't he? Think he'll be any use?"

"Probably only as a mole, anyway." He yelled at the entire line, and Dewey struggled not to flinch at the sound of it, "Make room! Make room!"

The line gave a little hiccup, creating a perfect little space in the for Dewey to enter from in a way that was disturbing in a rather novel way. Fighting back his nerves, he entered the line, and was soon letting himself be swept away by the thin river of humanity, and into the black ship of Thembria.

***

After seemingly marching forever, and needing to keep track of his step several times to avoid detection, Dewey and the others came to a halt in front of a team of inspectors. Each one went down the line, writing down each civilian's measurements, as if for a new set of clothes. As they went down the line, the Short officer spoke with his men.

"Well, comrades. Today is a glorious day for the great state of Thembria." He began to pace back and forth in front of his troops as he spoke. "Today we have captured a little-known American settlement, easily, painlessly, and with little effort. Very soon we can expect the Grand High Marshall's infallible master plan to begin."

The inspectors were getting very close now to Dewey. He noted as they sized up an Orangutan, that they took great pains not to let themselves be touched by the bare skin of the afflicted.

The short general continued, "Is everyone clear on the master plan?"

There was a general murmur of agreement.

"Uh. I don't remember the plan."

"WHO SAID THAT!?" the officer jumped up and down, raging at his men, "Come forward! Who had the gall to forget the supreme Grand High Marshall's master plan? You will be shot for this for the honor of Thembrian memory everywhere!"

Nobody stepped forward. Dewey, who had done his best to speak without moving his beak, stared straight ahead, trying to look dead inside.

"Fine! We'll go over it... step... by... step." He then snapped his fingers. A small entourage of destitute servants darted out and set up a large canvas, on which was written the Grand High Marshall's Master Plan. "Can everyone see?"

"Turn it a little to the left," called Dewey, trying hard to sound like a Thembrian.

"WHO SAID THAT!?" The officer grabbed the nearest soldier and began to punch him in the gut, hard. "It was you wasn't it!? SPEAK UP!" By the time he was finished, the private was coughing up blood, but the officer was convinced it wasn't him. "Fine." He then moved the canvas slightly to the left.

From his vantage point, Dewey could see what looked like a sickle and Hammer, with arrows pointing towards the shapes of various countries. Inside the countries, arrows emanated from a set point on the coastlines, supposedly from where Thembria would land, and eventually covered the entire country.

"STEP ONE! We land discreetly near the coastlines of the following countries." He pointed them out, "England, France, Canada, Japan, India, Australia, and ESPECIALLY," and he said this part with an extra heaping of relish, "the Imperialist Satan, the USA."

"YES COMRADE!" Yelled the Thembrians, as a one.

"STEP TWO! We activate... 'the symbol.'" This step was accompanied by a point towards the crossed Hammer and Sickle.

"YES COMRADE!"

"STEP THREE! We place our moles on the coastal cities, and allow our ideology to spread through the magic of Rasputin!" The officer let his pointer travel along the various arrows. "Our magic symbol will cause those afflicted to think nothing but Communist thoughts, and act communist actions. They will become the building blocks for the worker's paradise that was the dream of Marx, Lenin, Stalin!"

"YES COMRADE!"

"And step four is...?"

"TAKE OVER THE WORLD. ALL HAIL THEMBRIA!"

Dewey was sure this had to be a lot of horse baloney, but the evidence of his eyes was better than that of his instinct. The men lined up on either side of him, dead to the world except as never ending work machines, were proof that whatever this "Symbol" was, it had some kind of power.

Suddenly, there was a scream. "I touched him! I touched him!"

The entire room went wild. The other inspectors scrambled to get away from the screaming Thembrian, and the Officer struggled to get everyone under control. Eventually, the screamer had a blanket thrown over him so he could not touch anyone else, and was spirited away to some obscure part of the ship. Once he was gone, Thembrian soldiers, hiding all around the room, began to come out.

"Get out here cowards! He's gone!" the Officer yelled, waving his fists at his fearful crew, "Let that be a lesson to you all. Even one touch and the magic of the symbol will overtake you, and while... er... and while surrendering ourselves to become... er... indispensible cogs in the wheel of society is our ultimate goal as a people, we must stay ever vigilant so that we may deliver others to our way of thinking." He nodded, and crossed his arm. "All the more reason to move on with our Grand High Marshall's plan. You all know your parts, We will move out in three hours. DISMISSED!"

In every direction, Thembrians dispersed, until it was only the line of civilians and the officer. The diminutive one continued his harried, official pace, this time in front of the unmoving, unseeing victims of their plot, and Dewey had to struggle not to follow him with his eyes.

"Find something productive to do, and follow all orders. DISMISSED!"

As Dewey began to disperse with the others, he noticed that the Thembrian that had been touched before had been discreetly added to their ranks. Dewey looked down at his wrist where he had been touched by that Orangutan. If it's so contagious, why hadn't he been changed? Is it only a matter of time before he, the de-facto richest Duck in the world, turned red once and for all?

***

The cold steel of the floor gave out light taps as Dewey Duck wandered around the ship, trying to look busy, while also trying to overhear something useful. He realized something there, that to people with means, the help can look less than invisible. After a while, he realized that he didn't even need to try looking busy, as long as he kept moving, holding a broom, nobody would bother him.

He passed a large door that he heard whispering through. Counting on his newfound powers of invisibility, he entered and proceeded to sweep up nothing near the entrance of the door. The room was some kind of science lab. Within, he saw two Thembrians in white lab coats, having a harried argument.

"I say this thing is patently ridiculous," Said one, "There is absolutely no possible way having that thing on the ship could possible make the Americans bend to our will. There must be some other trick to it."

"No, comrade," said another, "It is magic. We don't have to explain it."

"Magic! Pah! I say that 'court wizard' or whatever is bad news. He is taking advantage of the Grand High Marshall's infirm state to enact his own plans."

"Comrade! Such talk is treason!"

"I don't care. There's nobody else here. Nobody ever comes to see us."

The other scientist began to lean his elbows on a desk. Judging from the dartboards and various other time wasters, the two did not have much to do on this expedition. "The State Magician is the reincarnation of the great Rasputin, in the body of an Italian. We must not doubt that which has been told to us by the Grand High Marshall's government."

"All right, all right." The other said, "But still, if I had my mind right, I would go down to Cargo Hold three and run some tests on that thing once and for all, and see if this 'magic' really exists or not."

"Even if you were allowed, you would never come back out yourself. Even getting near the symbol causes your mind to change."

Both scientists sighed.

"Want to play Monopoly?"

As the two scientists went to get the board game, Dewey was already out the door and rushing down to cargo hold three. If the symbol is down there, it could certainly be destroyed.

***

Speed walking through the halls, broom firmly in hand, Dewey went down, down towards the cargo areas. As he passed the odd soldier that would wander by, his heart would skip a beat, but his broom was his shield. Nobody paid him any mind if they thought he was already busy. However, even that can't stop everybody.

"You there! Halt!"

He stopped, turning slowly, trying to look as hypnotized as possible. A mop and bucket were thrown towards him, clattering on the floor.

"Clean up this hall. It's filthy."

Dewey, with not much choice, nodded, and picked up the mop and bucket. The Thembrian who had given him the job turned around to walk away from the Duck. Thinking fast, Dewey's eyebrows gave a twitch.

Clang! There was now a dent in the hard bucket as it bounced off of the Thembrian's head. He collapsed into a heap on the ground. Dewey dropped the mop and bucket on the floor and turned to continue on his way.

"What was that?" cried a voice, to Dewey's horror, "It came from over here."

No more pretending, the jig was up. He ran, full-tilt towards the stairs heading down towards the cargo holds.

"There he goes! Get him!"

The loud pops of guns pursued him as he ran. He jumped onto the railing of the stairs and slid down it quickly, colliding with another patrolling Thembrian at the bottom, and knocking him off of his feet. Dewey swore loudly and stood up before anyone could recover.

He gave a quick look over his shoulder and counted at least five men pursuing him. Looking back forward, he hoped that the cargo holds were close.

Lo and behold, he veritably jumped down another flight of stairs, attracting the ire of a few more Thembrian soldiers, when he noticed the tall, wide doors of a ship's cargo. He counted, one, two, three, and ducked inside the door.

In the new room, he looked around until he found a large, heavy crate. He ran to the other side of it, and pushed, steadily moving it in front of the door, trapping himself inside and the Thembrians out. He then turned around, and had to shade his eyes from what he saw.

It shone bright red and gold obscuring its form in its own dazzling light. Dewey had to shade his eyes, as it hurt to look directly into the blaze of light and color assaulting his vision. He could see a glass case surrounding whatever it was. It was faintly hypnotic, this light, and he couldn't help but begin walking towards it.

He was knocked out of his trance by bangs and scrapes at the door. The Thembrians were trying to get in, impeded by the heavy crate holding the door closed. Dewey gulped and looked back towards the shining light. He needed to destroy it. Maybe then everyone would go back to normal.

He took a step forward, then another, and then another. As he walked towards the symbol, he could feel something inside his head, like a finger poking around where it doesn't belong. He shook his head, trying to get the feeling out, but he couldn't shake it. As he cog closer, the feeling got stronger.

It's the symbol's power, he thought in horror, It's changing me like it changed everyone else.

He held his head, trying to will away the invasive headache he was developing as his instincts fought against the communist reprogramming. He took another step and could feel a strange, alien urge rise up in his head, an urge to distribute his wealth among the lower classes. He could feel his feathers standing on end as his mind raced to squelch such thoughts.

Suddenly, he could hear a buzzing and feel a slight vibration in his pockets, but no matter. He had to destroy the symbol. He was close. Close enough to touch, and yet...

He fell, his body suddenly going into mild convulsions as the disconnect between his mind and body began to get larger. He fought for control over himself, and managed to hug his arms to himself, trying to get under control.

Suddenly he could hear laughing. The voice had a strange quality to it, as if it was being run backwards through a tape player, and yet was perfectly understandable.

"Dewey Duck. Last of the three brats," taunted the voice, "Soon you too will be under my power."

"Wh..." His mouth tried to form the right words, "Who...?"

His eyes darted around, but there was nothing there.

"You should know that nothing in the world can resist this seductive energy. Soon you will be one of my slaves, still a prisoner of foolish ideology, but now of one that is alien and foreign to you. A fate worse than death."

This caused Dewey to uncoil his arms and resume trying to crawl towards the case containing the symbol.

"HA! You can barely walk, boy. What do you think you can do to my beautiful symbol. Face it. You will be absorbed into the collective. Do not fight, just give in..."

The voice took on a seductive quality, and Dewey had to struggle not to listen. He could feel it, the ideas, the images, the urges. He could feel his self slipping away. He slowly lowered himself to the floor, unable to support his body with his trembling arms as the voice laughed horribly.

"Must... not... distribute... wealth... Must... not... accept equal salary... for unequal work... must... not... give fealty to... the worker..." He struggled to move beyond a convulsion, and tried to think capitalist thoughts, thinking back to the magic of seeing the money bin for the first time, hearing about Uncle Scrooge's adventures becoming the richest duck in the world, travelling around the world, being better, faster, smarter, and harder than any other guy. Being tougher than the toughies, and sharper than the sharpies, and all along the way making it square.

Suddenly, he thought of his uncle, or at least how he had always pictured him from that portrait of him in the mansion, dressed as a prospector, with bandages wrapped around his feet instead of shoes, and a set of clothes he most likely trapped and skinned himself. Uncle Scrooge walked through the driving snow of northern Canada, through towards White Agony Creek, where he had made his first million prospecting gold. He imagined his uncle holding a large, mud-covered stone, dipping it into a pool, and pulling out a perfectly round hunk of solid gold ore.

The scene of Dewey's fevered dream changed suddenly, into a memory, of a few months before. The driving snow changed to a scene of hot, wet greenery. The visions of his uncle's winter shack changed to a vision of a tent and campsite at the foot of a hill. An inspection Dewey had conducted, all alone, on a site in India. Dressed in Pith helmet and light khakis, he wielded a shovel on a patch of ground laid bare at the foot of a small mountain. He brought up a bucket of dirt and stone, and hauled it towards a hastily set up Sluice connected to a nearby river. He dumped the dirt down the chute and quickly waited at the bottom with a pan, like the old prospectors of the old days.

In his pan, he saw glittering dust, not much, but enough to let him know that this site was worth exploring further.

Should I have stayed? He thought, suddenly, reality warbling away as he escaped into his memories, was it the right thing to leave soon after? Uncle Scrooge was killed and I had to go back to Duckburg. Huey had to escape the country. Uncle Donald disappeared. Louie and I took over the company. I had no time to go back. Was it right to send other men in my place? To dig up the gold I had found. Is it really my gold anymore? Am I just not as good a man as Scrooge McDuck?

Suddenly, he was knocked away from his stupor violently by a painful burning sensation in his pocket. He yelled out, and noticed that the voice was still laughing. His dream had only lasted a moment. On its own, his hand reached down into the pocket of his jacket, and withdrew a case, containing something buzzing and vibrating.

"What?" cried the voice as Dewey began to stand up, wobbling weakly, "It's not possible."

Dewey screamed, raising a glass case up in the air. He sent the small case down, smashing into the glass case of the symbol of Communism, sending glass showering everywhere. Dewey's hand was cut to ribbons and began to bleed, but he paid no attention. He simply searched the glass shards for what had saved him.

He reached down, and picked up the tiny dime, which was shaking violently in the communist magic permeating the room. As he touched it, it burned his fingers, but he was too far gone to care, thankful for any sensation at all. The burn quickly spread up his arm, and ceased being painful soon after. It was a warming sensation, and in its wake, his arms and legs and body ceased convulsing and wobbling, and once it reached his head, any thought of letting his wealth get away simply melted away. He was the master of what he owned, and he was the only one responsible for what happened to it, for better or for worse.

"No! It can't be! The dime! The number one dime! It's cancelling my magic." The voice sounded terrified, and began to scream as it faded away into nothing.

With dime in one hand, Dewey reached into the shattered case with the other, less lacerated hand. He grasped the symbol, which he could suddenly see for what it was with the haze of magic suddenly gone. It was a glowing red hammer, crossed with a glowing golden sickle. He grasped the handles and pulled them out of the broken case. As he touched them, a cold, clammy sensation snaked up his other arm, before being fought back by the glow of the dime.

He dropped the twin tools on the ground before he fell to his knees and grasped the hammer with both hands. Using one tool, he took careful aim at the other before bringing the heavy head down on the sharp blade. Almost instantly, the blade cracked. In another impact, the blade broke altogether, and the golden glow dispersed into the air. The red glow of the hammer similarly disappeared when Dewey broke the handle of it over his knee.

Dewey breathed deeply, staring at the debris of the two farm tools. He suddenly felt very light headed, and looked down at his hand. It was cut deeply, but the biggest danger was loss of blood, and maybe scars. Using his off hand, Dewey picked stray bits of glass out of his hand, too numb to even wince at the pain. He then took off his tie quickly, and wrapped it around the bloodied hand, trying to stymie the flow of blood.

With a moment to himself before the Thembrians broke in and ended him, he looked down at the dime he had set aside on the ground. He thought back to his Uncle, and smiled, thanking him for having saved every coin he had ever earned.

Then he saw the timestamp of the dime.

1967.

Crash! The crate was suddenly knocked aside, and an avalanche of people poured in. However, Dewey was too woozy to really care, and, closing his hand in a death grip around the dime, he drifted off to sleep, to dream of mining hundreds of dimes from his claim in the jungle, and of waving hello to his young Uncle Scrooge doing the same in the White Agony Creek claim across the way.

***

He woke up a few hours later, and saw faces looming over him. His hands rushed up, and he punched the nearest one straight in the jaw.

"YOW! Dewey! It's me! It's us!" cried the Green Phantom as he nursed his aching beak.

Dewey sat up, rail straight, and took in the scene. It was Huey, GP, that guy, Kit Cloudkicker, and Webigail. Webby had bloody bandages in her hands, and she was looking distractedly at Dewey's hand. He looked himself and noticed that his hand was being held together by imposing black wires, like Frankenstein's monster.

"Oh."

"Hold still," said Webby, throwing away the old bandages and fetching new ones, "You'll rip your stitches." She then carefully wrapped up Dewey's hand, being careful to place gauze between the bandages and the wounds.

"What happened?"

Huey laughed, "You tell us. We all just woke up on some crazy ship. Everyone rallied together to escape, and GP and I found you unconscious in the cargo hold. We dragged you off the ship, just before some magic pixie dust made it fly away over the high wall. Now you tell us. What were we doing there?"

Dewey breathed deeply and proceeded to tell them everything, about the voice, the dime, the symbol, and even began to elaborate on his half-remembered dream of mining dimes alongside their great uncle.

The Green Phantom scratched his head, "Well I'll be."

The large, brown bear then began to speak for himself, "Well, I wish it was in better circumstances, but it's nice to meet Huey's family. He talks about you all enough."

Dewey turned his head towards Kit and nodded, "Mr. Cloudkicker, I presume."

"Yep. I own that heap you've been running around in, and I also run Higher-for-Hire." He chuckled. "Considering your circumstances I won't charge you for the free trip to Rio."

Dewey gulped down some saliva, imagining how much a plane ride to Rio from Duckburg would cost, "Thanks." He then looked down at his now mummified hand.

A horrible thought struck him.

"Where... where's my dime!?"

Webigail smiled kindly. "Don't worry, Dewey. It's right here." She reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the dime, which had been attached to the inside of his pocket securely with a bit of string. "And Uncle Scrooge's is still inside its case."

Green Phantom crossed his arms, "So, your dime protected you?"

"I think so. It... It fought off the magic."

"I'm amazed it's so powerful." Huey said. "Uncle Scrooge never actually believed his Dime had any power."

"But Magica was always after it. It may not have literally been a 'Lucky' dime, but it could certainly have been made powerful by virtue of belonging to him," said the Phantom, scratching his chin, "Your 1967 dime may be the same way. You're technically the richest duck in the world, and that is the first coin you ever earned yourself, therefore, that dime is powerful, at least in matters pertaining to ideas about money. Perfect for fighting off Communism."

Webigail rolled her eyes, "Greed wins out in the end after all."

"I have no idea what you boys are talking about," said Kit Cloudkicker, "Anyone want some Coffee?"

"Yes Please!" said all four ducks.

After everyone had acquired a cup of potent java, Dewey continued to stare at his Dime.

"I want to go see it."

"See what?" asked Huey.

"My gold mine. I want to go see my gold mine." He looked up at Kit, "I'm sorry to ask this, but can I charter a flight to the McDuck Enterprises offices in Bombay?" He twitched. "We can... I'm sure we can pay you this time."

Kit Cloudkicker looked up at Dewey, and then to Huey, who had both hands twined together and was mouthing, "please?"

"No charge." Dewey's face relaxed. "Little Breeches. You pilot him up to India and stick around him. I'm sure you'll be needed."

"Right. Thanks Old man!"

"I need to speak with Farid as well," continued Dewey.

"It'll be kinda hard, what with being wanted internationally and all that," Said Louie.

"Yes, but I'm sure I can pull through."

Webigail scratched her head, "But wait. What about what happened here? Who caused it? Something important happened here, don't you think?"

"Yes, she's right," agreed Kit.

Green Phantom shrugged his shoulders, "There's no way we can know for sure who it was, but I have a feeling we'll find out sooner or later."

"Still..." said Webby, "...I wonder..."

***

Lavish red carpets and drapes were the first vision of the great hall of Thembria, required in the name of the people from the Czarists towards the end of the Bolshevik revolution. The art and paintings, however, had been looted and plundered, so that only the fancy carpets had remained. At the end of the hall, there was no throne, but a bed. A grand four poster bed, with an IV drip beside it.

Inside the bed, laying motionless with eyes half-closed, was the ancient ruler for life, the 97 year old Grand High Marshall, who had survived his reign for so long by not trusting anyone until the very end.

In the bald, wrinkled boar's eyes there was the slightest glimmer of fear. He could move nothing now, except his mouth. He could barely breathe without assistance, and he had to be fed through an IV in his arm. It was only a matter of time before he ceased being the ruler for life, and the thought of it scared him half to death.

A door at the end of the great hall opened. A Thembrian servant walked towards the Marshall quickly, before whispering in his ear, "The State Magician is here."

He tried to nod, but he could not.

The Thembrian walked all the way back towards the entrance to the hall before opening the door and letting in a shrouded figure. The figure was short, and walked with a hobbling waddle that took it forever to reach the side of the bed. The shroud lowered as the figure sat.

"I am afraid," said the Marshall, weakly, "My sources tell me your plan has failed."

The voice was accented with an Italian lilt, and was gravelly and scratched. "My plan was nearly perfect, but for a single flaw no one could predict." Before he could speak, the figure went on, "Our symbol of ideology was hampered by another symbol, one of equal power, wielded by an American of dogged courage and a great love of Capitalism. He will be the death of all of us, Comrade."

"And... how do we..."

"Ah. That is the good news. I can fight him. If I can retrieve his own symbol, the dime of the former richest duck in the world, then I can use it to ensure your hold upon the world..." The figure leaned close, exposing a long, elegant duck bill to the light, "...and perhaps even restore your former youth, and allow you to live forever."

His eyes opened a fraction, before closing again. "Make... it... so."

The figure nodded. "Thank you comrade. I shall get on that right away."

She smiled, causing the lines upon her face to move about as she thought, Little does the fool know that I shall be the one to reap the benefits of the dime. I will once again be young and beautiful, all thanks to the power still remaining in Scrooge McDuck's dime.

She then stood and put down her hood, as she walked away, exposing her full face to the light of the grand hall. She was old and haggy, and her hair was shock-white, but around her eyes there was still the glimmer of the temptress she once was. The glimmer of Magica DeSpell.


	10. Episode 10

Episode 10:

Behold the majesty of the Khan Building, Bombay, India! A tall, classic monster of Steel and concrete built as the financial center of the former Khan Industries before being absorbed by McDuck Enterprises. Within spitting distance of the Stock Exchange and tall enough to look over the entire glittering city, the Khan Building stood as a landmark to one of India's greatest businessmen, CEO of Khan Industries, Shere Khan.

In the large, generous penthouse office of the 100th floor, Farid Kagan sat with his back to the window, filling in a bit of paperwork to prepare for the hectic weekend ahead. He took a curious glance towards the simple, modern clock on the wall, and hastened slightly. He finished the page he was on in record time, and placed it gently on the outgoing stack, content with a job well done.

With business finished, the tiger began to primp a bit, making sure his tie was on straight and his fur was unruffled. Soon he was the shining vision of the slick businessman who could do no wrong. With one more glance at the clock, he nodded, ready.

There was a small commotion in his waiting room beyond the large double doors, and soon a rattling commenced. There were calls in Hindi from his high-strung secretary, but they were ignored by whoever it was rattling his door.

BANG! With a scream from the secretary, the door was kicked open hard, revealing on the other side three ducks, each dressed as janitors and holding mops and brooms as dangerous weapons. The secretary followed quickly as they entered, screaming at them that they were not allowed in there.

In his native language, Farid politely indicated that the woman should calm down and take her lunch break. Without another word, the woman looked nervously from her boss to the three odd strangers. Without another word, she bowed slightly, then bustled out the doors closing them behind her.

"Well, a rather inauspicious entrance for the CEO of a multinational corporation." Farid stood, walking over to his liquor cabinet with an easy stride before opening it and pouring out four glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter.

Dewey nodded as the three ducks shed their disguises. "Sorry about that, but everyone thinks I did that thing over in Duckburg. I can't afford to be seen. You would be amazed where a guy can go when he looks like a janitor."

"Of course," said Farid, smiling faintly, as he passed the tray of drinks among the three brothers, "what did you want to speak with me about?"

All three boys took the drinks, never ones to pass on free refreshments, and began to drink. Farid took his own glass and nursed it, slipping the tray under his elbow in a single even motion.

After downing his in one, Dewey breathed out, "Thanks, Farid. You're a lifesaver."

"And our business?"

"Ah. Yes. I need your help." Dewey walked up to Farid's desk and sat at the small chair in front of it. "We've been running from the authorities ever since we left Brazil, and I don't quite understand why. You're probably the closest thing I have to a friend within McDuck Enterprises."

"I see."

"Is there anything you can do? Do you have anywhere we can go, or anything we can use to clear my name?" Dewey leaned back, "anything at all you can do to help would be appreciated."

"Ah. Of course. Well, Dewey Duck," He walked back around his desk and sat at the high-backed swiveling chair, "I'm going to tell you exactly what I can do for you."

"Yes?"

"I can run the company in your absence."

"Oh." Dewey looked slightly dejected, "Well, that's good. It will be good to come back to a tight ship, but we're really in a tough situation here and..."

"I don't think you understand," said Farid, "I'm going to be running the company in your absence. From now until indefinitely. You are a wanted criminal now, after all. You can leave everything to me. Good day." He then looked down at a file on his desk.

"Er. Yes. I suppose." Dewey's eyebrows began to bend in worry, this was not going well. Huey and Louie were beginning to look to each other and sweat a bit. "But, Farid..."

"Oh. Are you still here?" The voice was suddenly cold, and withdrawn. "I thought I had bade farewell."

"Now look here, Farid," Dewey began to say, with a streak of irritability, "I'm still the CEO of this company. Just because I've taken an extended leave due to an unforeseen circumstance doesn't mean..."

"Why, Mr. Duck. I do believe it means exactly that." He resumed that faint smile that curled up his striped cheek like a spiral. "The board voted just this morning to let you go."

"Let... let me... WHAT!?" Dewey shot up, his face red. He slammed his hands on the desk, "You! You double-crosser! You can't do this to me, not after what I've done..."

"And what HAVE you done, Mr. Duck?"

"...Er"

"You found a gold mine, lovely. Another one to add to the pile. A drop in the bucket compared to what your Uncle made with his bare hands. You have spun your wheels for two years since your brother left, and no actual growth has occurred at your hands. Criminal record notwithstanding, you were an extraordinarily bad CEO."

"Wh-what?"

"Now that the Duckburg incident has come up, you have been discredited once and for all. A shame. A fraud. A mere babe who had his entire fortune handed to him on a plate with no idea of what to do with it. Well, no more. Now I shall be in charge. I will take your Uncle's company and operate things my way. I've had my eye on your job for quite a while Mr. Duck."

"You... bastard. That mine was... That mine..."

"Quite." He then pressed a button on the intercom, "Please escort my guests outside, if you please." He then turned back towards the file on his desk, "Good day."

The Green Phantom spoke up, finally having an excuse to say, "You'll never get away with this!"

Farid Kagan rolled his eyes at the line and looked towards the Phantom, "My men will take you to prison, which will turn you over to S.H.U.S.H and to the international Police, where you will be tried with crimes against humanity. I do not see whatever you mean."

Just then, the door slammed open. All three ducks, Huey in his ruffled leather jacket and red T-shirt, Dewey with his powder blue jacket and no tie, and Louie in his Green Phantom costume, sans cape, jumped to attention, ready to fight whoever came through the door. To Dewey's surprise, he recognized them.

"No."

The three security guards, with days of stubble upon their cheeks and blue upon their uniforms, stood Boner Beagle, Ballast Beagle, and Braincase.

"What do you wants us to do with them, Boss?" said Braincase.

"Take them to the appropriate authorities."

"Right!" all three beagles cried, as they bore down on the three ducks. However, they soon began to back away once they saw the expression upon the boy's faces.

Hatred, betrayal, anger, all of these emotions and more stood out clear upon Huey, Dewey, and Louie's faces, blushing purple. Their heads moved from one Beagle to the next, with the clear intent to kill. All three of them were lost in the long-standing urge to protect their Uncle's fortune from interlopers, as well as the blinding realization that they had all been played for suckers.

As the Beagle boys backed away, all three boys looked over their shoulders and began to speak in a habit they had tried their best to unlearn in their teenage years.

"It was you..." said Huey, "...That ordered the siege..." continued Dewey, "...On Duckburg!" finished Louie.

Calm, even in the face of the face of three stellar examples of the unflappable rage of the Duck family, combined with the money-fueled indignation of a true McDuck, Farid sat in his desk and answered, simply, with a smile.

"WAAAAAAKKK!" Yelled the three boys as they, as one, lunged at Farid, who did not flinch. The three Beagle boys finally snapped out of their terrified stupor and tried to hold down the three Ducks.

Boner held Louie in a rough half nelson hold, and he flailed wildly, trying to break away. The Beagle was sweating as the hero thrashed about in his arms. His lower torso and family jewels were securely protected now by no less than three cups, but the many kicks that were issued to his groin and legs were no picnic. Soon, however, Louie was able to use both of his legs and a quick swing to drive both feet into Boner's stomach, causing him to bend over while still holding Louie. His legs now touching the ground, he now had the leverage to flip boner over his head forward and send him roughly into Farid Kagan's desk, breaking it roughly in half.

Huey had been accosted by Ballast Beagle, who grabbed him by the wrist and did not let go, no matter how much Huey punched him in the gut, the chest, the arms, and the face with his other hand. Ballast seemed to shrug off most of the blows, although he began to cry lightly when blood started rushing out of a broken nose. He tried to pull Huey towards himself to pick him up, but Huey used the large Beagle's weight against him by grasping the pulling arm with both hands and pulling himself, sending the Beagle falling forward, screaming, before he slammed into the floor. His opponent down, and still seeing red, Huey began to jump up and down on top of the crying Beagle, who yelled for the rage-filled duck to stop.

Dewey had been held at gunpoint by Braincase. It wasn't a very smart move on Braincase's part, as his hand trembled in fear of the stories that his father and grandfathers told him about these times, when the Duck's rage would boil over and everything would lose control. It happened in the days of the very first Beagle Boys under Blackheart Beagle against the young Scrooge McDuck, It happened in the later days versus Scrooge's sailor-suited Nephew, and it was happening now, against the last bits of the clan. Taking careful aim, Braincase's shaking hands pointed the gun towards the slowly approaching blue-clad Duck, before pulling the trigger. Before he could, however, Dewey had simply grasped his hands and moved the gun upwards, causing it to fired into the ceiling. Soon, Braincase found the gun wrenched from his hands and, soon after, the butt of the gun slamming into his face repeatedly.

With each Beagle taken care of, each of the Nephews, unconsciously acting as a single unit again after all these years, turned to face down Farid Kagan. They saw, behind the ruined desk, that the spinning chair was backwards. Jumping up, and around the desk, the three boys spun the chair around to reveal nothing but a rapidly closing trap door.

All three swore loudly.

"What now?" asked Dewey, the red haze over his eyes lowering slightly.

"Follow him!" Yelled Louie, "He'll get away."

The three boys began to run towards the double doors, and opened them roughly. Behind them, was a huge team of additional Beagle Boys in security guard drag.

"Stop in the name of the La-AAAAHAHHHHH HE'S GOT MY LEG!"

"OH GOD HE'S BITING ME! DUCK'S DON'T HAVE TEETH! HOW CAN THEY BITE!?"

"MOMMY!"

"GO! RUN! GO ON WITHOUT ME! I'M ALREADY DEAD!"

"NO! WE CAN'T LEAVE YOU BEHIND- AHHHHHHRGGH!"

"Is that mine? WHY IS IT ALL THE WAY OVER THERE!?"

After taking a few seconds to work their way through the Beagles, Louie lead his brothers to the elevator. The strong fingers of three Ducks pried the doors open, allowing them access to the car, which they entered, closing the doors with a snarl before trying to figure out what number to punch.

"Where do you think he went?" asked Huey.

Dewey studied the numbers, before coming to the conclusion that the bottom floor was a safe bet. However, the elevator did not move as they pressed the button. The lights came off and the red emergency light came on.

Louie snarled, "They've cut the power."

"Fine!"

All three Ducks, using a handy set of extendable metal tools from Louie's utility belt that were never meant to be used as crowbars, the boys worked furiously on the ceiling of the dead elevator, leaving a gaping hole in the emergency trap door. The three boys were soon out of the car, and crawling along the top, with the slightest amount of space between the top of the car and the top of the ceiling and machinery, before they all, in turn, grabbed a hold of the thick steel cables holding the lifts up. They climbed down slightly, before jumping once again onto the steel cables hanging underneath the elevator they were just on. Using the same metal tools, the three boys began to slide, carefully yet quickly, down the steel cable of the dead elevator, taking the floors by the tens per minute. Soon, with all of their ears popping from the change in altitude, the three boys were facing the door into the first floor.

Within the hallway, the first floor was having a normal day at the office before the doors of the elevator blew open violently, and the three Ducks, breathing hard from their fast trip but still red-faced and rage-filled, ran out the emergency exit, setting off the loud alarm.

However, they heard the helicopter before they could see it. Farid's private ride was lifting up into the sky already, the tiger waving from his seat in the front side passenger seat.

Swearing loudly, Dewey yelled, "what do we do now?"

"Sea Duck!" yelled Huey, "We'll ram him!"

However, Louie was coming down from his wrath-high, "Wait! No. We need to think about this."

"Think about it!?" cried Dewey, grabbing the hero by the costume and shaking violently, "He's robbed me! Robbed my entire family! Robbers do NOT get off lightly in my family!"

"I know that you idiot!" cried the Green Phantom, grabbing Dewey's hands and pulling them off, "But if he try to kill him now we'll never get the company back. Get it?"

Huey began to line up a counter argument, but couldn't come up with anything convincing, "He... He's right, Dewey. C'mon."

The three of them then climbed down the stairs leading from the fire escape to the helipad Farid had just lifted off from. They ran across it to the chain link fence that cut it off from the city street, climbing up and over it, and piling into the puttering red car beyond, hoping to put enough distance between the building and them to get the cops off of their trail.

***

Back in the plane, safe, Huey piloted, and Louie sat in complete silence. Dewey laid across two seats with his head in Webigail's' lap, quietly moaning.

"There, there Dewey," she cooed softly, "It's alright. Don't let it get you upset."

"But he's got me. He's got me. He's got me. He'll have everything. The company. The revenue. My gold mine. He's going to get away with everything. He's won. He's won god dammit!"

"Shhh. Dewey. It isn't over. It can't be over."

"Without that mine, I'll... Oh. I'll never be able to... I'm sorry Uncle Scrooge! I'm a failure. An utter failure!" He beat the sides of his face with his fists, writhing around in Webby's lap, "I'll never... I can't..."

Louie was about to stand up and begin speaking, but he was pacified by a stern glance from Webby. She looked back down towards the mental breakdown in her lap and laid her hands on either side of his head. She then lowered her own head down on top of Dewey's and began to whisper.

"Dewey Duck. Stop."

His beak clammed up as he placed his own hands over hers.

"Dewey," She continued, "Listen to me very carefully. Are you listening?"

He nodded.

"Dewey. I want you to know that you are going to get your mine back."

"Uh-huh?"

"Yes. That mine is not Mr. Kagan's. It is yours. You didn't siege Duckburg, he did."

"Uh huh..."

"We are going to find a way to get him back, us, together."

"Ms... Vanderquack."

"Webby."

"W-Webby. Yes. Webby."

"Repeat that back to me."

"We... w-we're going to get my mine back."

"That's right."

"We're going to get it back together." He gripped Webby's hands around his face harder, causing her to smile.

"That's right."

Louie looked on at the scene, the two ducks comforting each other, so close, and yet with his brother still off in another world looking for the pot at the end of the rainbow.

***

"Mr. Kagan. One minute."

"Thank you."

The last layer of orange and black touch-up was applied to his handsome face as he stood and walked out of the private dressing room. As he travelled through the hall, his tie was straightened by one man, his pants touched up by another, and his Jacket dusted off by a third.

The aides dispersed as he neared the stage, and the red curtain, beyond which sat the most influential pens and cameras the world over.

With one final sigh of contentment, Farid stepped out onto the stage to the thunder of applause and the bright flashes of photography. He walked briskly to the podium, smiling warmly and waving to the press, displaying all of the cool suaveness of his late Uncle, but look, with much more warmth than the old man ever showed.

As he arrived at the podium, he began to deliver a speech to the American people, which was summarily translated into every language available for broadcasting in television and radio.

"My friends. Today is a dark day for the memory of Scrooge McDuck..."

***

"I'm sorry, everyone," Said Dewey, as Huey and GP sat around the passenger seats, auto-pilot engaged, "I lost my head there."

"It's alright," said Huey, diplomatically, "It happens to the best of us."

"Still," asked the Phantom, "What now? We have to win, but that Farid Kagan has us pretty well locked out."

"There has to be a way," said Huey, "We can't give up."

Louie crossed his arms and looked towards Dewey, "I hate to say it, but I think it's your call."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You're the one with the most to lose here. What happens next?"

Huey, GP, and Webby all stared at Dewey as he thought. He didn't hesitate to wonder if he was the right man to lead the others, he merely paused to give the matter some thought.

"We lay low. We hide. Somehow we've got to find evidence of Farid's involvement with Duckburg..."

"And Saint Canard. Remember, McDuck Enterprises has been laundering money through the underworld. I'll just bet that was Farid Kagan's doing."

Dewey nodded, "But we can't do it ourselves. We're too well-known." He turned to the Green Phantom, "Still on good terms with Darkwing Duck."

"Say no more, Dewey. I'll get right on that."

"Thanks, Phantom. I just know if we work together we can find a way to trap him."

***

"...The great founder of our company, the tycoon of a thousand industries, Scrooge McDuck, has attained a new disgrace earlier this week. His three Nephews, Huey, a known draft-dodger with obvious red sentiment, Dewey, the reclusive former CEO of McDuck, and Louie Duck, a carefree lay about, have ordered a siegeon Duckburg, hiring a mob of their Uncle's very worst enemies, the Beagle Boys, to sack the town. Built up by their own Uncle with his famous bin and business at the center of commerce, Duckburg had become a symbol of McDuck's success, and thus a symbol of scorn for the three boys, who felt they would never be able to live up to their uncle's legacy. Their ruthless attack shows us the depths to which even formerly good people can sink, and how men rotted to the core may sink even lower.

"My name is Farid Kagan, Some of you may know me, and some may be meeting me here for the first time. I come to you today as an ambassador of the company to try to extend our most severe apology for the terrorist actions of our former CEO. I also want to tell you a little about myself. I was born the nephew of the great Indian businessman Shere Khan, but even though I had his great inheritance to look forward to, I never stopped working for my place in the world. I joined the conglomerated Khan Industries and McDuck Enterprises as a humble stock clerk, and quickly rose through the ranks of the offices in Bombay, until the moment you see here today.

"With the board's approval, effective immediately, I hereby take control of McDuck Enterprises as the CEO, and let me say that it is a great honor to now be leading the company that my own uncle's company is at least a part of."

***

"No doubt all of our accounts are frozen," lamented Dewey, "One third of a hundred thousand Squidillion dollars, gone, just like that." His face lit up slowly, "But what about Louie?"

Green Phantom shook his head, "No. His would be frozen as well."

"How do you know?"

"Er... I just... er... talked to him. On my wrist communicator." He uncovered his wrist, revealing only his bare white arm, "Er, I mean, Belt communicator." He pointed towards his belt.

"You have a belt communicator..." began Dewey, his face going wide, "And you never let me use it to make cheap calls!?"

"Well, er..." Louie gulped, "It ran out of batteries just after Louie called. Sorry."

"Well, that's just great." Dewey leaned back and waved his arms about. "No more money, nowhere to go, few friends. We're in great shape."

Huey then laughed merrily, "Ha! You didn't ask if I had money."

The two boys then looked at their remaining brother, and both said at the same time, "You do?"

"Of course! I inherited just as much money as you guys did." He began to shuffle through his pockets as he spoke. Webby idly wondered if it was really safe for him not to be driving the plane right now. "O'course, my main account was frozen when I skipped the country, but I planned ahead. Check this."

Dewey took the small slip of paper and read it. A seemingly random string of numbers and letters, but in a sort of familiar length and pattern. Louie was the first to make the connection.

"This isn't...?"

"The code to a Swiss bank account." Huey laughed again. "Take all the money you need. It's for a good cause.

Dewey looked at the number, and his plan suddenly unfolded in his head. "Bahia."

"What about it?"

"We go there. Lay low," said Dewey, "We stay with José and the girls until we figure out where to go from there." He took a deep breath in and then out. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger. Once Darkwing gets back to us... we'll go from there."

Off into the wild blue yonder, the Sea Duck buzzed off over the horizon into an uncertain future.

***

"As I make this announcement, I understand that I am putting myself at great personal risk," continued Farid, nearing the crescendo of his speech, "Both from terrorists like Dewey Duck, and from common criminals. As the inheritor of Scrooge McDuck's fortune, I also inherit the risks and intrigues associated with it. I can only hope that I can be up to the challenge, but to endure my own safety, and to speed along the hunt for the ruthless criminals responsible for the atrocity at Duckburg, I have taken steps."

Farid began to step away from the podium as he reached off to gesture off stage left, "I am pleased to introduce the former bodyguard of Scrooge McDuck himself, and legendary hero in his own right. My hero, and yours. Gizmoduck!"

With a sound like a revving engine, the silver-armored duck rolled out onto the stage, waving as cameras flashed, blinding his instruments, and the crowd whispered and roared and cheered, drowning out all sound coming into his mechanical ears.


	11. Episode 11

Episode 11:

The Baiano breezes rushed through the gaps between the buildings that made up the Capital of Happiness. Salvador de Bahia, a center of culture and music, of carnivals and festivals. The capitol of beautiful Bahia, Brazil, with fifty kilometers of blue and white beaches spread across the coast, where palm trees sway and the men and women and children and women frolic over the sands, taking the time to escape from their insubstantial lives if only for a second, to be taken in by the warm embrace of the sea and sun.

Within the city proper, in the area known as the Pelourinho, a small building, relatively new, but modeled quite obviously on the colonial architecture that surrounded it, contained the seed of commerce and prosperity. Above, a sign signaled that this was one of the many pousadas spread around the Palourinho, bearing the English phrase "Bed & Breakfast" in smaller text underneath. It couldn't have had more than two or three rooms to it, and it was known more for its breakfasts than its beds.

It had been nearly one year since the fateful escape from the Khan building in Bombay, and José Carioca, making the easy transition to a born and bred Baiano that comes easy to a natural social chameleon like he and his family, had taken in the four exiles. They, in return, funded the Bed & Breakfast with a portion of the money they had in Huey's Swiss account. Using this base, Dewey and José became partners, uniting Dewey's head for business with José's taste and romance to set up a small retreat for lovers in the middle of Salvador, with all the intimacy they require, and none of the overwrought bustle that comes with the larger hotels and hostels closer to the coast.

Over the past year, charming José had been the public face of the pousada, making sure every single couple that came across their threshold was pampered and coddled, and given the most pleasant time they could ever require. The business had been good so far, as José's personal touch earned the B&B a lovely reputation, and, to Dewey's relief, a fairly long waiting list well into the year. Salvador's love affair with Zé's Pousada had been a long and smooth one so far, but Dewey, whose sense of business knew enough to understand when the tides change, wasn't up for relaxing yet.

The summer, their second in Salvador, was fast approaching, and as such, the preference for more intimate, romantic atmospheres surrounding the spring, fall, and winter months would fall away to the hustle of summer tourism. They couldn't compete with the larger hotels by the sea in the coming months, so Dewey had to focus on simply surviving until their busier months, when they would be on top once again.

At the moment, they had a single couple staying at Zé's. A tall, gangly stork and his newlywed wife, for whom the grace period of love and acceptance was still in full swing.

"Don't eat that. It will go right to your hips," said the man, in straw hat and thin Hawaiian shirt.

His wife did not seem fazed, and continued eating the plate of breakfast meat that had been placed in front of her. "You're one to talk."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You've been loading up on fatty foods for weeks. I've been dieting to fit into the dress. I think I'm allowed to cut loose on our honeymoon."

"I have not. I've been the picture of strapping health."

"Strapping health subsists on two chocolate bars a day?"

"At least I can still wear the same clothes I wore in college."

The cool way in which the two spoke such nastiness with each other put strange chills up Huey's spine as he, in his little uniform of white shirt, red vest, and little black bowtie, walked up to speak with the beautiful bride.

"Is everything alright? Need a refill on anything?"

"No."

The clipped answer caused Huey to twitch, "Alright then. Have a pleasant Breakfast." He then turned to walk away.

Off, away from the intimate breakfast nook, through the employee area, and through the kitchen, Huey walked, before he sat on the little chair spitting distance from the kitchen. Huey leaned back and marveled at the fact that, from Rosalina, Maria, and Amalia's perspective of listening at doors and spying through keyholes, those two cold turkeys outside have the best sex imaginable.

"Hello, Huey."

Huey jumped to his feet, and soon was forced back to his seat by the combined weight of three parrot girls climbing all over him.

"Oh! Hi girls."

"Hello Huey," said the three girls again, showing the extant of the English they had learned in the year since they had first met the Duck family. Rosalina, the de-facto leader of the group by virtue of knowing the most English, continued, "Still letting the Storksons get you down?"

"It's just so depressing. It's like they're barely tolerating each other. There's no passion!"

The girls giggled, "There was last night, AND the night before."

"And will again tonight!" said Maria, the second most educated of the girls in the language arts, "Is last day. How romantic."

Amalia only nodded and sighed, understanding her sisters from context.

The three parrot girls and Huey had been dancing a close and dangerous dance ever since they had all been assigned their roles in the B&B. As per his nature, Huey had been giving the so-called "Time of day" to each of the three girls in turn, while also trying to keep that fact away from both the other two girls, and from their Uncle José, who would certainly not be amused. For his part, this flirtation had started innocently enough, as all three girls were naturally flirty, and were all clearly into him.

He stood up, pulling away from the three of them, before turning and smiling nervously, "Well, sex or no sex, I need to go get them their check." He began to turn away from the girls, smiling the whole way, "Could you go and tell Dewey they're almost finished with today's breakfast?"

The girls, from their perches around and on top of the lucky chair, grimaced.

"Dewey? I don't like Dewey much, Huey," began Rosalina.

"He is so Cheap!" continued Maria.

Amalia then finished the sentiment vulgarly in her native tongue.

Huey smiled much warmly now and wagged a finger at the girls, "Now, ladies, you know Dewey is the one around here keeping your uncle from going out of business." He nodded. "He may be a cold fish, but he's a natural at making money."

The three chorused, "Okay!" before they each blew Huey a kiss. Huey had a moment of panic, where he wasn't sure which of the imaginary kisses flying towards him he should do something adorable with, like catch out of the air and place on his cheek, or eat, or something along those lines. He settled for a protracted motion where he caught all three at once and stuffed them in his pockets for later, which seemed to go over well with the giggling crowd as they departed deeper into the Employee area, towards the linen closets and offices.

As they entered the thin hallway, one following the other like a line of baby quail, they saw Webby coming out of one of the closets with an arm full of fresh sheets. She was wearing a sensible black uniform and sensible shoes that were just a half an inch of leather away from being work boots.

"Ms. Vanderquack!" They all said with their usual bright tone for the woman, a fair boss who had just enough stern ugliness when mad to command respect, while also being warm and considerate enough to listen when things went wrong that weren't the girl's faults.

"Girls," said Webby, lowering the linens to let her eyes settle squarely on the ring leader Rosalina's, "what have I told you about our names."

Maria and Amalia simply looked ashamed as Rosalina parroted back, "We shouldn't use your real names."

"Correct. While we stay in Salvador, I am Ms. Beakly. Dewey is Deuteronomy Coot, Louie is Louis Duckworth, and; And you should listen close to this one, girls; Huey is to be called Hubert McQuack. Understand?"

"Yes. Ms. Beakly."

"Good," She began to pass the girls in the hall as she spoke, "On your way."

"Wait!"

Webby stopped, and tilted her head, "Yes?"

Rosalina twined her hands together and spoke, "Please Ms. Beakly, could you speak to... Mr. Coot for us? Huey... er... Mr. McQuack... wants us to tell him the guests have nearly finished eating."

"Why ever can't you do it, girls?"

Maria and Amalia mimicked their cousin's position, as Rosalina went on, "He doesn't like us Ma'am. He is cold, like the fish. It feels like he does not want to see us, even when we are at our most friendly."

Sighing, understanding what the girls think it means to be 'friendly' to one of the opposite gender, nodded, "Fine. I'll speak with him." She then handed the armful of sheets to Rosalina, who distributed the pile among the others. "You take these to all three rooms, NOT just the one we have a guest staying in. Understand?"

"Yes Ms. Beakly."

"Good." She waved them off and they went, like a small sexy stampede, towards the exit and into the pousada proper. Shaking her head and smiling, Webby turned back up the hall and began walking towards the main office. She knocked.

"What?" said the voice inside.

"It's me, Mr. Coot."

"Oh! Ms. Vander... er... Beakly. Come in!"

She did, stepping inside her boss's office. It was quite small, taking up just the smallest corner of room from the building, but was consequentially uncluttered and very well-organized. Webby had noted long ago that while Dewey was on par with Scrooge in terms of ambition, when you considered the usual state of an office or file cabinet lorded over by the late Mr. McDuck, his nephew was miles ahead in terms of cleanliness and orderliness. Dewey was sitting with his back to the door, looking over a set of papers, and daring the phone to ring to bring him some new business.

"Yes?" he said.

"Hubert says that the guests are nearly done with Breakfast."

"Good. We'll have to make sure José sees them off for the day. He has a knack for ensuring repeat business."

Webby nodded.

Dewey turned in his swiveling chair, a few pages of a report in his hand. As she stared at his unadorned neck, Webby idly noted that he has yet to replace that tie he used as an impromptu bandage the year before. "We need more rooms."

"Sir?"

"More rooms. I've started thinking we need to buy up the building next door and use it to expand."

"The next building over must have a hundred different rooms," countered Webby, "We would need a much larger staff. We can't risk too many people knowing us, could we?"

Dewey stared at his former personal assistant current housekeeper, and blinked. He then slumped down. "You're right!" He ripped the page in his hands once, twice, three times, and tossed the confetti into the air. "God forbid I become too successful," he snarled out.

Webby placed her hands on her hips, "Now, Dew... Mr. Coot. You know we aren't here to run the business. Zé's bed and breakfast is our cover. We need to be able to pick up and move on at any time."

"But we were doing so well! It was thrilling. For six months we were booked solid straight through the holidays before we petered off in mid-spring. There is a great deal of money to be made on this venture..."

"We can't worry about money right now, Dewey. We have to focus on... on our goals."

"But... But..."

Webby sighed and turned, "I'll be going now. I have work to do."

"Er... all right."

She began to leave the room, and had almost closed the door, when...

"Webby?" He said.

Her heart skipped as she reopened the office door a crack.

There was a pause, where the two ducks tried to feel the other through the thin office door and beyond their own pounding heartbeats.

"Please send José in to see me. Please," Dewey finally said.

After a moment, the door slammed hard, and Dewey was alone. To keep himself from thinking about what Webby said, and the dread feeling that one day he would have to pick up and leave this B&B while it was going so well, he moved the typewriter over from the corner of his desk and loaded in a sheet of Carbon paper he had recycled so many times that it had the faint outlines of as many as ten different monthly reports printed on it. He began to type out that month's report for his records.

Ten minutes went past before a heavy knock sounded, followed by the door opening before Dewey could say 'Come in.'

"My friend! My friend! What would you like to see me about?" Asked José as he instantly sat in the guest chair and made himself comfortable, beginning by lighting up one of his thick cigars. "I've got to see off the lovely couple staying with us, remember?"

"Yes, José, but this is important as well. It's about expanding the business."

José smiled broadly, "Why expand? I think we are doing very well here and now."

"Yes, but we could do better."

"And I suspect young Webigail has heard about this plan."

"Er... Part of it. She vetoed a large part, however, and I need to come up with something to replace it with." He stood from his typing and began to pace in the three feet allowed him. "I think, perhaps, if we can't build our single location up, then the next best plan would be to create more locations of the same size around town."

"Why the urge to build, Dewey?"

"Deuteronomy. You never know who might be listening."

"Alright. Deuteronomy. Why build? We have such a lovely place now, and I am content."

"But I'm not. Your way of working with people is fantastic, and I want to sell that to people... as many people as possible."

"But Deuter... Mr. Coot. If we do that I could not possibly make as many people happy as I do now. If we open two hotels I will only be able to oversee one and the other would suffer unless I were to split my time between them, which would spread me too thin to be of any good use. And if we open three..." He sucked in some smoke and blew it out, "Forgedaboutid."

Dewey then rounded on the parrot, with a lost expression on his face, "Well then I just don't know what you want me to do, José. I try to build up and I can't. I try to build out, and I can't. I'm giving you the benefit of my business expertise here, José, I don't know what you want me to do!"

"I want you to relax, Dewey. We have made enough money over the holidays to live off of until our season starts once again. We won't even need to dip into Hue... Hubert's savings. We are living perfectly sustainable lives here as we are." He then scratched his head under his straw boater, "And of course, what if you all get called away? If the business is too large I cannot run it on my own."

Dewey sighed and sat down, leaning his elbows on his desk. "I don't want to think about that."

"But..."

"The heating bill is much higher than it was last month. I forgot to tell you that. You may go now." He tried his best to pointedly not look at José. "Go on, José. Go see the guests out."

Distressed at Dewey's moody attitude, José stood. "For what it's worth, Mr. Coot," he said, "It is a very nice plan." He then turned and walked out of the office, using his umbrella to aid his lame leg.

Quickly, hoping not to miss the Storktons before they go out to see the sights of Salvador, José hurried his uneven gait until he was back in the breakfast nook. He looked around and groaned loudly. The Storktons had already left.

Turning on his heel, he left back through the Employee area, waving politely to Huey, who, seeing Uncle José walk past, very quickly ceased his heavy petting session with Amalia and acted like nothing was happening. José walked on, turning towards the kitchen, where Louie was standing with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his forearms plunged into a tub of steaming water.

"I hesitate to comment on another man's family, but your brother is crazy."

"So what else is new?" said Louie, wiping a large platter with a sponge, "What did he do?"

"I tell him I am content with the pousada we have build for ourselves, but he insists we build it larger." José shed his cream-colored jacket and began to roll up his sleeves, before taking up a cloth and helping to dry the dishes Louie washed. "When I say I do not want it and that it would be dangerous, he sulks. Why does he do this?"

"It's nothing to do with you, Joe, don't worry. It's just our upbringing." Louie pulled out a freshly rinsed plate and handed it to José. "Uncle Donald was in poverty most of the time we lived with him. His only regular source of income was working for our Uncle Scrooge for peanuts. The only way he could even make a living wage off of it was for us to help and take home the same wages, then pool them together and give them to Uncle Donald to help him pay for food, and payments on the house."

"Really? I had no idea Donal' was in such rough straits."

"Of course, when Uncle Donald re-upped in the Navy, we all went to live with Uncle Scrooge." Louie smiled and rolled his eyes, "That was an entirely different matter altogether."

"Because he was so rich?"

"Because he was so cheap. It was surreal. We lived on around the same amount of food as we did when we lived with Uncle Donald, but bought on less than a half of a percent of our great Uncle's total income. Uncle Scrooge was a wonderful man, deep down. We all loved him. He'd had a life full of hardships and he had earned everything he had ever had, but his attitudes about business and money were so tight you could bounce a quarter off of them." Louie looked up from a glass he had been rinsing out, before handing it over to José. "Those two were our main parental figures, you have to understand, so naturally the fact that their situations were so different has impacted the three of us pretty hard. Huey and I are much cooler about our money, although I suspect he wasn't hoarding all that money in Switzerland just for his health, but Dewey? He's different." A bowl found its way into Louie's hands and was passed over quickly to José's. "He idolized Uncle Scrooge. I mean, we all did, you couldn't help it. When he was in his teens he was an honest-to-god cowboy for Christ's sake. But Dewey damn near tried to become Scrooge McDuck Jr.

"I remember the winter before Uncle Scrooge passed away. We had all pretty much grown up and had gone our separate ways by then, you understand. Huey had moved out pretty soon after Donald came home from Korea and was off getting his pilot's license, Me and Uncle Donald were still living together and working for Uncle Scrooge for more money than I ever saw him pay anybody; Don't look so impressed it was still less than minimum wage; and the prodigal son Dewey was in India prospecting for gold. Everyone shows up at Uncle Scrooge's cabin on Bear Mountain, even though Huey never forgave Uncle Donald for leaving us to fight the war, he was there. Uncle Donald, Aunt Daisy, and Uncle Scrooge were there. I was there, practicing some rope trick or other I had coaxed out of Scrooge before he got too old to show me. Dewey was, of course, nowhere to be seen.

"Donald and Scrooge were both disappointed, of course, but then a postcard comes to the door. It's from some small town in India where Dewey was staying. It said, 'Can't talk long, my next claim might be rich with ore, Merry Christmas.' Three lines." Louie's grip on the plate he was holding tightened, "Three dirty lines, and Uncle Scrooge was suddenly miles away, talking about his time in the Yukon prospecting, and White Agony Creek, and that same stupid story we've heard a hundred stupid times. You could see it in Uncle Scrooge's eyes. He was so proud of Dewey. So proud, and there I was working for the rich bastard for less than minimum an hour, all of which I gave back to Uncle Donald so he and Aunt Daisy could have the security to get married."

Louie's fist suddenly came down, splashing the water, "I... I couldn't... It's not like I could have gone off to try making my own fortune. I had more important things to worry about. I..." He looked up at José's warm, concerned face, frozen in mid-dry. "I'm sorry. We were talking about Dewey. He always wants to make his own fortune. It's to do with making Uncle Scrooge proud. Something about that." Louie's beak then suddenly went up, "Me? I don't worry about things like that. The old man gave me enough money that I could live off of it for my entire life and still have enough to leave my grandkids. I've got absolutely nothing to feel guilty about." He resumed washing, going quicker now, with false bravado. "I never had money at Uncle Donald's, and At Uncle Scrooge's I had all the money in the world, but couldn't spend any of it. I'm my own man now, and I can spend it on what I like."

Louie finally stopped talking, and José couldn't help but smile. Somehow he understood Louie perfectly, even where Dewey was an untouchable mystery to him.

Suddenly, a ding resounded from the front.

"That is enough washing, Louie... I mean, Louis. Go out front and tell them I will be right with them. I must prepare."

"Sure," said Louie, unrolling his sleeves and straightening the green bowtie he wore as his uniform. He then began walking off.

"Oh. And Louis?"

"Yes?"

"Don't leave the window hanging open when you come in at night. It is causing the heating bill to Skyrocket."

"Oh. Alrigh... er... I... Oh..."

José looked back with a mischievous little smile and tapped the side of his beak with a green feathered finger. Louie couldn't help but sigh and think, Oh well, one more person in on the secret can't hurt.

He walked on, out past the chair, where Huey was now entering into heavy petting with Maria, but still with the presence of mind to offer up a discrete high-five behind her back as Louie went past, which he was equally subtle in returning.

Louie walked through the Employee area, then out and behind the counter, where there was a lady goose in dark sunglasses standing, ringing the bell.

"Good morning ma'am," he said in a very practiced fake Brazilian accent, and with the fakest smile anyone had ever offered up, "Mr. Carioca will be out in just a minute."

"Now why would I want to see him when you're right here," she lowered her glasses slowly, revealing her eyes, "Gadgets."

Louie gasped, "G... Goz..." before looking around. The main hall and breakfast nook was empty. "Come on." He said. "Back here."

Gosalyn Mallard vaulted over the counter, and followed Louie back behind the door marked 'Empregados somente.' The two of them passed by Huey, now working over Rosalina, and settled in the hall leading up to the closets and offices, safe from prying ears. Once there, Louie felt secure enough to begin talking.

"Guh... uh... urg..."

Of course, having nothing much to say, his mouth just made funny noises until Gosalyn placed her hand over his mouth.

"Quiet. You are a difficult family to find. You know that?"

"That's for the best, isn't it? Internationally wanted terrorists and all that."

"Even so, I've been searching for a week before I found out that José Carioca had set up a new hostel here in Salvador." She look off her glasses and coat, revealing the much more casual affair underneath, with the mere flash of purple underneath that, "Three layers in summer weather in Brazil. I do not recommend it."

"You're telling me." He placed a hand on her shoulder, "Anyway, what are things like back home, and in Duckburg."

"Not so good," she said, whipping off her shirt and revealing the double-breasted coat underneath, "Farid Kagan has whipped everyone up into a frenzy to find you guys. He put Gizmoduck on the case a year back, and everyone is getting antsy to find you. Duckburg is paranoia city at the moment, but Saint Canard is even worse."

"Really? Why?"

"Since one of the terrorists was a masked hero, then naturally all masked heroes are to blame. We've been made scapegoats. Gizmoduck has lead the campaign, and since he is firmly in Farid's pocket, Farid is leading the campaign."

"Campaign to what?"

"It was passed a few months after you left," She tied the mask to her face before retrieving the hat from her person, "Register, reveal your identity, and continue crime fighting in the public eye; Retire and never crime fight again; OR continue crime fighting in the shadows and risk getting caught and sent to jail. Since most of the street-level newbies have opted to retire, the big boys have had to stoop to the surge in petty crime, allowing upper-level superbads to slip through the cracks." She shook her head, now fully in costume. "It's bad, and Gizmoduck isn't doing a very good job of inspiring confidence in the community."

"Sounds terrible."

"It is. Darkwing Duck officially retired from Saint Canard nightlife about two months later, once the pressure had gotten too great." She sighed, but quickly smiled again. "However, Business. I come bearing a gift."

"A gift?"

"Yes. Dad's connections may have come in handy. S.H.U.S.H finally got back to me not too long ago with an offer. Turns out they are quite suspicious about Farid Kagan's sudden rise to power, and of Dewey Duck's sudden disappearance afterwards. They are willing to begin investigating Farid, if..."

"...If?"

"We can gather enough evidence that something funny is happening."

Louie nodded, "Wonderful! We can do that!" He grasped Gosalyn by the hand tightly, "Come on, Darkwing. You're all suited up. I think it's time you told everyone else the plan."

***

"Finally!" Called out Huey, ripping off his ridiculous Bowtie and loosening the top few buttons of his shirt, "I've been waiting for this. No more dealing with irritable honeymooners for me!"

Stuffed into Dewey's tiny office, the three duck boys, the three parrot girls, José carioca, Webby, and Gosalyn stood or sat. The minor dimensions of the room were just enough to hold the entire party, although with some stacking when it came to Huey and the girls.

Dewey sat at his desk, although his view was partially obscured by Louie sitting next to his typewriter. He did not seem as happy about the news as the rest of them. Webby, standing over his shoulder, placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Isn't this great, Dewey?"

"Of... Of course. Yes." He leaned his elbows on the desk and put his fingers together, being careful to avoid being crowded out by Louie. "But the B&B..."

"Who cares about the B&B?" Snapped Louie, who had begun to whip off the vest he had been wearing. "If we can find proof, we can end this."

"Yes... but..."

Louie's face rounded on Dewey, his expression one of mild incredulity.

"What?" said Dewey, drawing away from Louie's piercing stare.

"You don't want to leave, do you?"

Everyone in the room mentally took a step back from the conversation, more often mentally than literally, due to the size of the room. Louie twisted his body around, sitting face-to-face with his brother.

Dewey's eyebrows drew in. "So what? I... I like it here. It's a good city. Is that a crime?"

"This has nothing to do with Salvador and you know it," Louie extended a finger towards his brother, "This is about you running the business here, isn't it?"

"I... Well... There's no shame in it."

"I can't believe you!" Louie suddenly cried out, grasping the top of his head in his hands, "The only reason we helped Joe set up this stupid hostel was to give us a cover for living in Salvador. We have to be able to pick up and move on at a moment's notice. We KNEW this going in. I know you. You've been going at this like you think Uncle Scrooge would have, I know it. You're trying to take this business and turn a profit, I know, but there are more important things to worry about here. We need to focus on Farid Kagan and McDuck Enterprises. Do you understand?"

"Of course I do! I... There's no shame in wanting to be successful. Especially not here."

Louie's cheeks were beginning to blush in anger. "Another time, Another place, I could let you do whatever the hell you wanted, but this is too important. Farid Kagan has stolen from us. From our family. If you don't want to get back at him after that then I really don't understand where you're coming from."

Webby placed her hands on Dewey's shoulders, "Louie, stop."

"No! I won't stop." He turned back towards Dewey. "Do you want to go, or don't you?"

Dewey said nothing and in the process said everything that need be said.

"I can't believe this! You don't want to get Uncle Scrooge's business back!"

"Louie!" Huey was suddenly up, and with his hand pulling on the back of Louie's collar roughly, "Enough."

Webby had knelt down next to Dewey. "Dewey. I'm going to ask. Do you want to... stay here?"

Dewey paused for a moment, to look into every pair of eyes that looked at him, before looking down at his desk, "Yes. I do." His hands resting on his legs bunched into fists. "I... I'm happy here."

"You don't see happy," muttered Louie, before he was silenced by a nasty look from Darkwing.

"I am. It's... It's my very own business. I took Huey's money, and José's strengths, and spun them into my own money. It was... it is... good for me. I'm happier here than I ever was in McDuck Enterprises."

"And so you're just going to let it go?" yelled Louie, "Just let Uncle Scrooge's business fall into the hands of that lunatic?"

"I..."

"After all that, you'll just betray our Uncle like that? He was... You were his favorite and you're turning your back on him!" Louie stood, grasping Dewey's collar in his hands, "You selfish...!"

"LOUIE!" cried Webby in surprise and Huey in warning. Louie softened his grasp before letting go. He turned away from his brother, before walking out of the room without another word. The pause in the conversation was wide before Darkwing Duck left the room to go chase after Louie.

Webby touched Dewey's shoulders again, "Dewey. We can stay."

Dewey turned his bill up to look at her.

"They don't need us anyway. I'll only get in the way, and you can run the pousada with Zé."

Huey stepped forward, "Are you sure Webby?"

"Yes. We'll stay behind. You all go back to Calisota with Miss Darkwing." She smiled. "Give them hell for us."

One by one, each person left the office, first Huey, then each of the girls, then José, until only Dewey and Webby were left. Once the last of them were gone, Dewey buried his face in his hands.

"I don't know what to do."

"You do what your heart says, Dewey," said Webby, "Right or wrong, that's what you have to do."

Suddenly, both of their heads snapped to attention, there was a strange tinkling noise, and the scream of one of the three Carioca girl. Instantly, Dewey was on his feet, and was out the office door.

***

Heat and the crackling sounds of fire greeted them as they entered the main lobby. The large picture windows were broken from the outside, and bottle after bottle was being thrown in, spreading the alcohol-fueled flames along the carpets and drapes. Huey was carrying Maria, who was grasping his neck with all of her strength, and José was shielding the other two girls with his own body. They were trapped in the corner by the flames which threatened to consume them soon. Louie and Darkwing were nowhere to be seen.

Thinking fast, Dewey ran back into the Employee area and took out a CO2 Fire extinguisher, readying and finally wielding it against the flames. The white foamy smoke poured out, giving Webby a trail to run over to retrieve the group. Taking the hands of the two girls on foot, she ran towards the front door and looked out the small window. She saw a team of dirty men she recognized from Rio, the VPR, fighting Darkwing Duck and the Green Phantom. The two crime fighters were coming out on top.

Webby turned, "Come on! We're going."

Suddenly, Dewey's eyes went wide. "Wait!" he yelled, before he turned on his heels and ran back through the fire towards the Employee exit, using the extinguisher to clear the path. As he ran, Webby screamed for him, but was swept out the door by José, using the most calming tone he could muster.

Dewey was running through the thin hall, aware that if the fire spread to the flammable linens at the entrance he could be well and truly trapped. He opened the door to his office and quickly went to work at the small safe he kept in the office embedded in the wall. He spun the wheel once before he began the combination. 1 left, 9 right, 67 left. The door opened and Dewey reached for the box inside, hugging it to himself. He also grabbed a glass dome, and broke it against the edge of the safe, using his fingers to fish the 1875 American Dime out of the glass. He placed it securely in his pocket, with his own number one tied to his pocket with a string.

With Cashbox pressed to his chest like a baby, and dimes secured in his pocket, Dewey rushed out of the office into the hall, where dark smoke was rising up out of the door to the main lobby. With a sinking feeling, he rushed up to the securely closed door and felt, drawing his hand back at the sheer heat he felt through it. He looked around quickly, and opened up the linen closet, pulling out one of the clean sheets, and then ran over to the small employee bathroom, soaking it thoroughly. He used the wet sheet to grasp the hot door handle. He twisted carefully, before jumping back into the linen closet with the wet sheet over his head to escape the burning back draft coming in through the opened door. It died down momentarily, revealing a waist-high column of fire.

Heat even more intense than ever, Dewey jumped through the fire as fast as he could, shielding his face with the damp sheet, and ran towards the door, fire licking at his feet and legs. Soon, he reached the front door, and threw off the wet sheet, which had been flash-dried by the run through the fire. He grasped the front door and opened.

Before he could run out, however, A man, a mean-looking dog, held a revolver up, threatening to shoot. Dewey gritted his beak and hugged his cash box to himself, bracing for pain.

CLONK! The man's eyes rolled up into his head as he was smashed on the back of the head. He fell to the ground to reveal the Green Phantom, holding a large, burning wooden pole.

"Can we go now?" said the Green Phantom.

***

By the Sea Duck, José's family and the Ducks, including Webby and Darkwing, stood around the unconscious body of one of the VPR revolutionaries. Louie, who had the foresight to get out of his costume to avoid getting "Stuck" in his secret identity, splashed the man with a bucket of water to wake him up.

Spluttering, the dog shook his head and tried to breathe, coughing up water as he did. Darkwing then grabbed his head and forced it up to look up at José Carioca, who began to converse with him in Portuguese. When the man didn't give the right answer, José shook his head, and that gave Huey permission to hit him anywhere he wanted. This went on for about an hour.

Webby had wandered off, not wanting to watch the violence unfold, and found Dewey sitting by the Sea Duck, still hugging the cash box to his chest.

"Dewey?"

"...It's gone, isn't it?"

Webby looked back off towards the town and sighed as she followed the column of smoke up from the center of town and up, twisting off into the sky. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"I was doing it, Webigail. I was running something of my own. Even if it was Huey's money, and José's talents, I was the one running the place. I handled the money, I owned the business, I advertized, I brought in new clients..." He shook his head, "But now it's... gone..."

"Dewey..."

They were stopped by a voice, Louie, who was replacing his lame vest with the green plaid jacket he was more accustomed to, "He talked."

Webby answered, "What did he say?"

Louie looked directly at Dewey as he said, "It was a payoff from McDuck Enterprises. Farid Kagan paid them to flush us out."

Dewey looked up, but did not say a word.

"Look, Dewey. I'm sorry I got so angry earlier. I just..."

"No..." began Dewey, placing the cashbox reverentially on the ground, "No more apologies. No more crawling into little balls and trying not to cry. No more retreating." He looked up, and his eyes were fierce with focused anger, quite different from the uncontrollable rage of his family. "Farid has taken too much away from me. If we don't stop him, He'll keep coming after us."

He began to walk towards the rest of the group, his back straight, and his head high. His hand was snuck into his pocket to touch the two dimes within.

"We'll get him. We'll hand him over to S.H.U.S.H on a silver platter," said Dewey as he walked with Louie towards the others, followed by Webby, holding the cash box, "by any means necessary."


	12. Episode 12

Episode 12:

"What a dump," said Louie, as he searched the low skylines and wide residential streets of the sleepy town below for any sign of either the modern majesty of Saint Canard, or the earnest bustle of Duckburg.

The plane came in for a discrete landing outside of town near a forest, before the group disembarked. Huey, Dewey, and Louie, Webigail, José Carioca and his three nieces all stood at the edge of the woods, looking at the distant vision of houses and low, blocky buildings.

Huey smiled and waved his hands off into the distance. "Welcome," he said, "To Mouseton, Calisota."

"Why?" asked Louie, his obvious disdain for such a town showing through his face, "Why are we here?"

Huey smirked and began to give the penny tour, "Well, Louie, Mouseton is a small, mostly suburban and rural city of middling population a few hundred miles outside of Duckburg. Despite its former rank as the capitol of Calisota near the turn of the century, it never had nearly the growth potential that Duckburg or Saint Canard did. Indeed, once Uncle Scrooge turned Duckburg into an industry town, it very quickly left Mouseton in the dust. Today it's mostly known for some famous crime that happened here about fifty years ago."

Rosalina, coming up behind Huey and batting her eyelashes, asked, "What happened?"

Huey blushed, and his eyes swung around to look at the girl's uncle-slash-father as apologetically as possible. For his part, José wore only an amused expression.

"Well, er, It was this case, see? This mysterious masked man, called 'The Blot,' operated a crime wave here that extended all the way out into Duckburg. He was apparently some kind of crazy hypnotist or something." Huey began to walk and talk towards the edge of the town. "Some Private detective working with the police finally took him down. Something like... Mortimer? Morey? Something like that."

Darking, passing the meandering Huey, took up the slack of the story, "We're here because it's the last place anyone will look. Mouseton is just one of those towns where nobody goes and everyone is from." She looked over her shoulder and towards Louie. "Perfect for our purposes."

Webby smiled and breathed in. "Well, the air is much cleaner than I'm used to. It's a nice place. Didn't your Uncle Donald live here for a while?"

Huey grunted, "Who cares about that?"

Webby opened her mouth to answer, but Louie shook his head towards her. She took the hint and quieted down, walking alongside Dewey, who was looking around seriously.

"Where is this office you got for us, Huey?"

Huey perked up, " It's an old office right near the center of town, in the historic district. I think you'll really like it, Dewey."

***

The door creaked open, spreading a small yet bodacious wave of dust to cascade across the floor. In the frame, the large group stood, with Huey, Dewey, and Louie at the front.

"What a dump," said Louie, raising a single eyebrow.

The room was dark and dry with a grey haze that seemed to settle over everything. Huey tried the light switch, and a single, bare bulk blinked off and on, before burning right back out. From what they could see, there was a single desk, a ratty old couch, and a big empty shelf.

"Good a place as any," said Darkwing, blowing past the three brothers and stepping into the room, kicking up small clouds as she walked.

"I'll really like it, huh?" said Dewey, with a sideways glace towards Huey.

"Of course," Huey said with a smirk, before making his own way into the room, "It was cheap."

"Oh." Dewey looked around once again, this time with a much more appreciative light. "A fixer-upper."

Louie stomped in after Darkwing and sat on the couch, followed by the rest of the group. "So what now?"

Darkwing placed her hands on her hips, and said, "Now, I'm gone."

Dewey nodded, sitting on the wooden chair behind the desk, and searching the drawers for errant office supplies. "Right, You go into Duckburg to search for proof of Farid's guilt. We'll stay here and-" Crack! The chair collapsed underneath him and Dewey seemed to disappear behind the desk. After a moment, he continued his speech, as if he had never stopped. "We'll stay here and lay low."

With a sly look towards Louie, Huey said, "And what about that Green Phantom guy? Do we know what he's doing?"

"I don't know and I don't care," answered Dewey, climbing back up from where he had fallen, before Louie could speak, "I still don't altogether trust The Phantom."

"I'm sure the feeling's mutual," muttered Louie.

"Regardless," continued Darkwing, "You stay here. I'll be back as soon as I get something useful." She walked over to the window and opened it, scurrying out without another word.

The rest of the gang then slowly made themselves comfortable in the dusty room. As the Duck boys, Webby and José sat around and waited, The three girls killed time by digging through the closets, finding, thankfully, a broom and dustpan, as well as a few other interesting items.

"Anybody like to play Monopoly?" said Rosalina, holding up the box.

***

That night, with the room swept up clean enough to sleep in without sneezing, the entire group slept. After discovering that the couch folded out, Huey, ever the gentleman, suggested the four women take it, while the men slept on the floor. José admired Huey's spirit of chivalry, but Dewey and Louie, or at least their mental chiropractors, didn't quite appreciate the sentiment. Curled up around the floor using their respective coats and jackets for pillows and blankets, were the three boys, while José took the hard-yet-clean desk as well as one of the sofa cushions. The remains of the game, a close affair ending with a sheer battle of wills between Dewey and Louie for control of the board, sat near the corner of the room, a monument to Dewey's sense of business if the stack of multicolored money on his side of the board had anything to say about it.

The room was dark, and all that could be heard was the light snoring of the sleepers. A small movement in the dark, a sound, and a shaded shape began to move through the room, towards the window, being careful not to step on anything or anyone. The window opened with a moan of old wood sliding against old wood, and the shape moved out, backlit by the moon high in the sky, before he disappeared up to the roof.

However, a single pair of eyes were open enough to catch this, before narrowing in suspicion and anger. Dewey Duck tried to drift off to sleep, but with visions of the Green Phantom sneaking out playing over and over in his head.

***

Mouseton, so different from the other towns and cities he's gotten used to over the past year or so. At night, it truly sleeps. Unlike Duckburg, where Men work straight through to the dawn, or Saint Canard, where the unscrupulous stay up late to plot and scheme, or even Rio or Salvador, where good times are the order of the night life, Mouseton had nothing. The entire town shut down promptly at nine O'clock and awoke the next morning at six. No wonder the Phantom Blot was able to set up his business here where there were no rivals and no suspicion as he pulled the strings of his puppets from half a world away. The pulse of this city, faint, but existent, began to flow through Louie as he sat out on the roof, breathing the clean air. He thought of the Blot, and what he must have felt being the only one awake to appreciate the quiet and dark, and what kind of man the detective who took him down must have been. A Mouseton man, and yet aware enough of the night to defeat someone who operated in the dark.

That was that, Louie was gone, and the Green Phantom had come out to play, bolstered by the silent whispers of the night. He pulled out the grappling hook he had, still made from spare parts salvaged from the Sea Duck, and figured out the shorter length needed to swing across such low buildings. He threw the iron hook towards the nearest building, a square, four story midget, and prepared to take a trip across the street.

He jumped from the roof, preparing to shift his weight in a swing, raising his legs so the soles of his boots wouldn't scrape across the pavement. He aimed for the roof of a house, a quaint two story vision of Norman Rockwell fantasy with dog house and white picket fence. He had reached the low apex of his swing and was about to clear the white spikes of the fence on his way to the slanted roof above.

BANG! Suddenly, there was a great deal of slack on the rope. The Green Phantom tried not to scream as he suddenly fell through the air. In a low arc, he cleared the fence, just barely, and came down hard on the leafy bushes on the other side, grunting from the impact. Wasting no time, the hero was back up on his feet, and bent low behind the fence for cover, just in case that loud cracking noise was what he thought it was.

BANG! Suddenly, one of the planks of the fence disturbingly close to GP came free and split in half due to the force of a mid-sized object moving at high velocity. Following the planks, he spotted a raised patch of dirt, where the missile had dug into the poor homeowner's lawn. A musket ball.

"Come out you son of a bitch!" Cried Dewey, waving Scrooge's musket wildly, "I know you're back here!"

The Phantom swore quietly, eyes wide. He looked through the hole in the fence and saw his brother, wide-eyed with rage, holding the musket steady at his hip. With another bang and a puff of white smoke, another section of fence near his head came loose and flew away, showering him in splinters.

"Stop shooting you maniac!" yelled the Green Phantom, standing up and waving his arms while Dewey took the time to tamp more powder into the antique gun, "What the hell are you doing?"

Dewey dropped another musket ball into the gun and continued to tamp it down, before dropping his rod and leveling the rifle towards the masked hero, "You followed us to Mouseton. Why? Where do you keep disappearing to?"

With sweat on his brow, Louie's shoulders drooped, "Oh, come on... you... you know I'm buddies with Darkwing. She sent me to keep an eye on you guys."

"That wasn't part of the plan. We don't need the likes of you hanging around here."

"Come on, man! I saved your asses in South America, and Duckburg, and..."

"...And wherever you seem to show up, trouble follows. I knew you snuck into the hostel in Salvador every night. I kept asking José to close it at night, but you always managed to find a way in. Not long after the VPR found us." He cocked back the gun and looked down the sight towards the Green Phantom, "How do I know you're not the one who tipped off Farid Kagan? How do I know you haven't been working for him the whole time? How do I know you won't go and tell him where we are right now so he can send someone else after us to burn down half of Mouseton?"

"You got it all wrong, you blind idiot!"

"Prove it! You're hiding something."

"Of course I am! I'm a superhero. I'm supposed to have a secret identity!"

"Why?"

"I don't know! That's just how it works! Get that thing out of my face."

"Not until you take off that mask."

"I wasn't going to say anything, but damn, how do you not know who I am?" Louie waved his arms around his face, "It's not even that big a mask."

"Take it off!"

"Literally everyone knows already! I think even Amalia has figured it out, and she doesn't even speak English."

"Shut up and take it off!"

"Hey you hooligans! Stop that shouting!" railed a crotchety voice from the house with the picket fence, "I got work in the morning!"

Surprised, Dewey fired towards the sound, burying the musket ball in the wall of the house as the elderly black and white horse shook his fist, unaware of his close scrape with death. With the Musket suddenly unarmed, Louie jumped over the fence and yelled as he grasped the barrel with both gloved hands and pulled, wrenching it out of Dewey's grasp before dropping it behind him. He then pushed the blue-clad duck to the ground and jumped on top of him, raising his fists up to knock some sense into his deluded brother.

"Horace! Horace! What's going on?" Said a lady's voice from within, "Lord have mercy, what is all that noise."

"The neighborhood's going to shit Clarabell. Kids brawling in the streets, setting off fireworks at God knows how late in the morning!"

Louie's fist made a meaty impact with Dewey's beak, but he refused to stay down. His scarred hand pushed the masked man's beak up, and his other hand aimed a punch, while both legs thrashed to try to strike someplace sensitive. Louie's own free hand grasped Dewey's punching hand before he could strike, however, and he wrenched his beak free of Dewey's grasp.

"Is it Mrs. Cluck's grandkids? Always making such a fuss. Let me see."

"Woman! Go back to bed." He turned back towards the fight. "And you! Quit that horsin' around and go back home to your mammas before I give you a whipping like they should have!"

Dewey wrenched his entire weight sideways, and the two ducks found themselves rolling around in the empty streets, tearing and thrashing at each other with their limbs. Eventually, Dewey found himself on top, and, without thinking, he sent his forehead to strike into the Green Phantom's causing GP's head to bounce painfully off the hard pavement.

"Let me see, Horace!"

"Clarabell! Get back to bed! This isn't for your eyes!"

"Ohh! Wait'll Clara gets an earful of this. Who are they, Horace?"

"Hell if I know, Woman!" The horse began to look around, "Get me something to throw!"

Dewey, breathing hard, leaned over on top of the dazed Green Phantom, and reached for the mask, his bloodied knuckles shaking as he wrapped his fingers around the surprisingly chinsy spirit-gummed plastic. He began to pull, ripping the mask up from the feathers of the Phantom's face until...

BONK! CRASH!

"Horace! That was my best china! Shame on you!"

"Desperate measures, Clarabell! They'll think twice before making trouble in our neighborhood!"

Dewey fell over from the shock of the china plate slamming into the back of his head, and his hand tightened. As he fell to the ground, his vision clouded over with spots. He felt another impact on his face before his vision seemed to clear. He noted that his hand was filled by the crumpled up mask before he got a good look at the formerly masked man.

"You?"

Louie froze, with his arm cocked back in preparation for another wallop. He felt his face, and suddenly realized that his mask had come undone. "W-where is it?"

"Louie? You're the Green Phantom?"

"If I say yes will you stop trying to kill me?"

"I reserve the right to change my mind." Dewey tried to push Louie off of him, but Louie had him pinned to the ground by his hand, and was sitting on his waist out of reach of his legs.

"Ah-ah-ah. No getting up until your little baby fit is over."

"What the hell are you doing playing superhero?"

"I'm not playing Dewey. I am a superhero."

"What is this? This is why you ran off to Saint Canard? This is where all of that money has been going?" Dewey looked angrier than ever, and tried to thrash even harder against Louie's hands. "You've been wasting your inheritance on... toys?"

"You've been spying on my accounts?"

"And why not? You used to be my business partner. I had to know where your money was going." Dewey suddenly spat off to his side, leaving a small pool of bloody spit on the curb. "And now I find out you were spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to become a superhero? And not even a very good one!"

"Better than just letting it all sit somewhere in a bank with nothing happening to it."

"I'm just following in Uncle Scrooge's example!"

"Uncle Scrooge saved up all of that money and treasure so he could swim in it, and remember all the stories from when he earned it. What's your excuse?" Louie yelled at the top of his lungs, spit flying from his beak as long-dormant feelings came flooding out, "You've never had a worthwhile memory in your life!"

"That's not true!"

"It is! If you had your way you'd sit up in that empty bin on Killmotor hill all day and waste away staring at the pennies at the bottom nobody can reach."

"I manage McDuck Enterprises, A responsibility you ran away from!"

"McDuck Enterprises can take care of itself!"

"That's why Uncle Scrooge didn't trust you!"

Louie drew back, before he slammed the trapped wrists into the pavement, "Bastard! Scrooge taught me more than he ever taught you!"

"You learned silly rope tricks. I learned the business! If you had your way you'd give the entire business away to some charity!"

"I learned to have principles! I learned that even if nobody likes you or what you stand for you still keep going, and damn what they think! You would realize that if you tried to be yourself instead of some carbon-copy of our Uncle!"

"And you should remember how he felt about what happened to his money! He worked for every last red cent of this..."

"HA! As if you can tell me about work! You went off gallivanting in India. I stayed behind! I stayed and worked so Uncle Donald could feed us, and so he could go through with his proposal to Aunt Daisy. I stayed behind to help take care of the man before he went and got himself killed chasing after more money and treasure all alone. I worked and I worked for the shit that man gave us for money while you and Huey went out and had lives, and I worked after he was killed to make sure the business could run after he was gone. After all that I think I was entitled to start having a life with my own money that I earned by being the good nephew!" Drops of water fell on Dewey's face as Louie spoke, his speech getting warbly as he struggled with his emotion.

"Good nephew? GOOD Nephew!" Dewey's own face took on a red hue as he shouted back, "I was the good nephew! I was prospecting for gold in India, you idiot! I was trying to make my own fortune! I didn't want to fall back on Uncle Scrooge's money for some empty security! I wanted to make my own way in the world!" He pushed on Louie's hands, succeeding in raising up the stronger arms slightly. "I took all of the money out of the bin because I wanted to start over! That was his money, not mine. It will always be his money, full of memories of the Klondike, and Panama, The Mississippi, Transvaal, Glasgow... I couldn't just keep hoarding all of those memories that weren't mine! I was... I was going to fill the bin with my own money that I made myself. I wanted to catch up to him. Surpass him. But... but then he died and you left me alone to run the business, and I couldn't just abandon it to find my fortune. My claims just sat in India, gathering dust, and I... I couldn't..." His own rage-filled eyes began to water. "It made me miss him so much. I thought he would stay with us forever."

"He always loved you more. He always talked about your expedition."

"Who cares! You got to spend the last year with him. I wanted to see him one more time before he..."

"Oh, Dewey!"

"Louie!"

Finally giving into their mutual sobs, the two brothers embraced tightly in the street, wailing each other's names along with half-pronounced apologies to one another, and to Uncle Scrooge, and Huey, and Webby, Gosalyn, Uncle Donald, and anyone else they could think of. Aching hands and faces were forgotten in the wracking weeps as the two brothers melted together, letting five or more years of rivalry and antagonism dissolve away in so many tears.

"What are they doing NOW Horace?"

"My god! I think they might be a couple o' them Homer-sexuals from the city!"

"Land sakes! I'll get more china! Get 'em Horace!"

***

The next morning, Huey was the first one up, even before the sun, and the first thing he noticed was that Dewey and Louie were both nowhere to be found. His brows creased, and he got up, stretching the cricks out of his back from lying out on the hard floor, and putting his leather jacket on over his red undershirt.

Quietly, he walked towards the door to their little Mouseton office and stepped into the hall, figuring his brother's might be somewhere planning something.

That's when he heard the singing, faint at first, coming from further along the corridor, where there was a simple staircase leading up to the roof. As Huey got closer to the roof access door, the sounds of song and laughter got louder, as well as the sounds of clinking. He placed a hand gingerly on the door and twisted the handle, listening to the two voices beyond sing in a sloppy round.

"Show me the way to-"

"SHOW me the way to go ho... you stopped."

"You started too early."

A laugh, "You started too LATE!"

"That makes no sense!" Another laugh.

Huey peeked through the crack in the door, and saw, sitting on the ground near the end of the room, a half-drunk bottle between them, and two glasses in each of their hands, Louie and Dewey. Their clothes were disheveled, and Louie's costume was only half on, with his crumpled mask stuck clumsily to his forehead with the remainder of the spirit gum.

"About as much sense as you paying for the most expensive stuff in the store, Dewey."

"Issa Special occasion, Green Ghost."

"Phantom! Phantom! I'm the Green Phantom! Not Ghost. Allitarala... Alliteram... Alliter... Starting your name with The same letters is such a hokey device. I wanted something with flam!"

"Flam?"

"Flim-flam! Razzmatazz! Jazz! Gumption!"

"Ga... right."

"Okay. You start this time."

"I started last time."

"Well start again!"

Huey walked out onto the roof right then, and before Dewey could get half of the first note out, both brothers were on their feet and rushing towards their brother. "HUEY!" Both yelled in unison.

"We're sorry..." "...For everything!" "We were..." "...Jerks!" said Dewey and Louie in an alternating rhythm.

"You guys have been drinking up here?"

"We had a fight," said Dewey.

"But then I punched him and now we're brothers again."

"An' we got these nice dishes to show for it." Dewey then reached into his pocket and retrieved shards of blue-painted ceramic that had been shattered.

"An' we need you," yelled Louie suddenly, grabbing Huey's arm and pulling him, "We're not drunk. We just can't seem to get this round robin down."

Huey let himself be positioned to the edge of the building and sat down next to the bottle, as he said, "Now wait a minute. Dewey, you know that Louie is the Green Phantom?"

"Yeah."

"And Louie, you're not mad at Dewey anymore?"

"Nope."

"And Dewey bought..." He looked down at the bottle and goggled at the label, "21 year old Scotch?"

"The GOOD shit!" said both brothers in unison.

Huey looked from one brother, to the other, then to the other again, their disconcerting idiot grins, framed by a pair of very conspicuous black eyes on Dewey, somehow cause Huey's heart to melt. And the only cure for a melted heart?

He took a swig of the scotch straight from the bottle, raggedly gasping at the beautiful sting.

"Well, boys? I don't know what happened between you two, but this is probably the best breakfast I've ever had." He then held up a finger like a conductor's baton as the hard liquor began to play tricks on his empty stomach, "A one and a two and..."

The three then began to sing their song, overlapping their voices in three parts, occasionally skipping beats and warping the rhythm, but often blending in three parts, falling perfectly in step behind each other to turn one song into three sung in sequence. They faced out towards the East face of the building, where they watched the sun rise, arms around each other, brothers, once again, at last.


	13. Episode 13

Episode 13

The telephone receiver was placed on the cradle smoothly, but with enough force to cause the bell inside to give a small, pathetic chime. The orange, striped hand then moved from over the phone to grab a very expensive black steel pen from its cradle, before reading through a contract in front of him. There was a knock at the door.

"Enter." Said Farid Kagan, not quite an order, but not quite a request either.

The door opened up and there was a sound like a bicycle on carpet. Farid looked up to see the chrome-plated Duck of Steel, Gizmoduck, standing sheepishly with his hands behind his back.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Gizmo. Can you sit in that suit?"

"It's very difficult to stand afterwards sir, I'd rather stay on my wheel."

"Very well." Farid then opened a drawer. His face was perfectly neutral throughout all of this. He reached into the drawer and placed the file he obtained on the table, opening it up. "Dewey Duck has disappeared from my information network."

"Is that so, sir?"

"Quite. They have been missing ever since my... agents in Brazil tried to flush them out. Unfortunately, they escaped."

Gizmoduck nodded, wondering where his boss was going with this.

"However, I have recently gotten a whiff of one of the group's allies." He then reached into the file and threw a stack of photos out on the table. At first glance there seemed to be nothing there, but upon closer inspection there seemed to be something moving too fast for the camera to see without blurring. Something purple.

"D- Darkwing Duck?"

"Yes, your old friend Darkwing is in league with the terrorists."

"H- he's no friend of mine, sir," Insisted Gizmo, "Just another dangerous vigilante. Where were these pictures taken?"

"This one," He pointed it out, "Duckburg, but I doubt the hens would roost so close to the fox's den. These two," He pointed, "Were taken in Spoonerville and Mouseton respectively. One of those two places is most likely where they would be holing up. I want you to fly out to Calisota and search for them."

Gizmoduck rolled forward and looked at the pictures, allowing his suit's Heads Up Display to automatically scan the photos for any recognizable signs. There was no doubt that the purple blur was Darkwing Duck.

"I'll search Spoonerville first, sir. It's further away, but it's larger, and there's a lead there I've been meaning to try."

"Very well. You may go." Farid then lowered his face down to his papers and that was the end of that.

After a pause, during which Gizmo stared at the photos, he turned on his wheel and left the room.

***

Using those resources available to only the most high-tech of heroes, Gizmoduck found himself searching Spoonerville the next day. The Noon sun beat down on the scene of Gizmoduck rolling out in the open paved sidewalk, as people watering their lawns and pruning their bushes stared at the metal man rolling past. Looking around, Gizmo opened up a compartment on his chest, and made a ringing buzz as a photo printed quickly out of it.

He inspected the photo, the last publicly available picture of Dewey Duck, taken shortly after he and his brother had taken over the family business. He was shown standing next to his brother in nearly identical business suits, with a determined scowl directly at the cameraman on his face the only thing setting him apart from his brother's easygoing smirk and slightly wandering eyes. They are walking down Killmotor Hill together, standing next to a sign that said "Intruders will be met with siege weaponry," and approaching a large crowd of paparazzi in the foreground, held back by a set of guards standing at the opening of the barbed wire fence. If Gizmoduck remembered the news of the day, the picture was taken days after Dewey and Louie had taken over the business, and a couple months after Huey had disappeared.

Looking up from the photo, Gizmoduck began to scan the area around him. It was a small suburb of low, almost identical houses standing side by side on a wide street, with every modern convenience. Gizmo focused in on a car stopping nearby. He had already searched he town quite thoroughly, but for this area, and was content to give up the search and head out to Mouseton after asking just one more person who was likely to know. As the young man, a dog with a long face ending in a pair of gapped buck-teeth, stepped out of his car, Gizmo hailed him.

"Just a moment, citizen!" said Gizmoduck, "I'd like a word."

The man turned and started for a moment, before answering back, sullenly, "You're that... Gizmo-guy, from Duckburg."

"Gizmoduck. And I have a few questions."

"Uh..."

Gizmo held up the photo and pointed towards the scowling Dewey, "Have you seen this man?"

After an uncomfortable pause, the young man took up the picture, scratching his chin as he stared at it. His eyebrows raised as his eyes swiveled up to meet Gizmoduck's visor. "Aren't these those bazillionaire Duck brothers?"

"Yes."

His brows rose even further as he looked at the picture with newfound interest, "I haven't really seen them. I don't know why they would be around here."

"I've been asking around the city for any possible leads or connections. You and your father are the last connection I must investigate before I leave."

"Me?" asked the dog, his floppy ears twitching as his drew back slightly, "Why would...?"

"Your father had a connection to their Uncle. Both lived in Mouseton before World War 2, and were quite close. They apparently worked together along with a third friend, a Mr. Mouse..."

"Listen, buddy, I barely know anything about any of that."

"Your father never told you about his friend in Duckburg, or about his nephews?"

"Of course he did, but they were just stories. Donald Duck was a minor celebrity thanks to that rich uncle of his, and whenever he would appear in the papers or whatever, Dad would point him out and tell him they used to solve mysteries in Mouseton or whatever. After the war he and that Duck guy only saw each other a few times." The Dog crossed his arms, "I never even met him, and now you want to know if I'm hiding his terrorist nephews, is that it?"

Gizmoduck did not flinch at the Dog's accusatory tone, "More or less." He then moved his head over to the house in front of which the young man had stopped, "Is your father in?"

The dog's eyebrows came together as he gave a sideways glance towards the house. He turned his eyes back towards the hero, "He's not home. He'll be gone for the whole weekend. I'm watering his plants."

"May I search...?"

"No. No you may not, not unless you come back with a warrant or whatever it is you hero-types need to poke around other people's property."

"I assure you, I mean no harm or offense." Gizmo nodded. "If he is not at home, I can come back another time."

"Good, you do th-"

However, before the dog could finish speaking, they both heard a baby's cry coming from the house. The Dog's expression was one of worry, before he realized what that meant for Gizmoduck.

"The baby is all alone?" asked the Duck, "In his grandfather's house?"

"N-no. Of course not," said the dog, "There's a babysitter."

"Why can the babysitter not water the plants?"

"Look, You're not welcome here, tin man. Just go back to the city and leave us alone." The dog then turned up the drive and began to walk towards the house.

"There... IS one more connection between you and the others."

The young man stopped, and looked over his shoulder, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The hero, Super-Goof. Apparently a legacy hero, who has roots in Mouseton while your father lived there. He appeared in Saint Canard at about the same time that you moved there with your wife and disappeared recently, after he was nearly caught for violating the Hero registration act. You moved to Spoonerville from Saint Canard at the same time that he disappeared, didn't you?"

"Don't do this, Gizmo."

"Known allies: Darkwing Duck, a dangerous rogue hero in league with the terrorists Huey, Dewey, and Louie Duck. Now, tell me, Mr. Goof. Is this a coincidence?"

"Leave us alone. We don't know anything."

"Junior! Junior, is that you?"

"Damn! I'll be there in a minute, Dad!" He then rounded on Gizmoduck, "And you, stay away from us, or..."

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Goof?"

"N-No. I'm... We don't know anything. G'bye." He turned back around and quickly walked towards the house.

Gizmo approached, regret in his voice, "I was hoping you could make this easy Mr. Goof, but I'm afraid we're going to have to do this the hard way."

As the dog walked up the drive, he began to reach for a small bag in his pocket. A bag of addictive little peanuts that he promised himself he had given up. "Y'don't want to do this Gizmo. You know you're way out of my league."

As Gizmoduck approached, readying an appropriate gadget for the situation, Junior pulled out the bag and was about to reach for one of the little super goobers, when the bag was suddenly wrenched from his hands by a whistling arrow with a boxing glove attached instead of an arrowhead. His head twisted around to see a purple-clad figure crouching up on top of the roof.

"I wouldn't do that, Junior," Said Darkwing Duck, "Not if you want to live."

"Darkwing!" cried Junior, before he continued on, "You said If I drove 'im off you'd leave my family alone! You promised!"

"I lied. It's the kind of person I am." She knocked another arrow, a sharp one, and pointed squarely at the dog, before letting it fly.

A large mechanical arm erupted from behind the dog and shielded his body from the arrow.

"Darkwing Duck!" cried Gizmo, sprouting a helicopter and chasing after Darkwing, who began to run across the suburban rooftops, occasionally covering her trail with smoke, "Darkwing!"

As the two heroes chased off into the distance, the dog surreptitiously retrieved his bag, before stepping calmly into the house. He was greeted by his father sitting on an easy-chair, reading a paper, having not been paying attention to anything happening outside.

"What was all that commotion, Junior?"

"Nothin' Dad," he said, "Is little Maxie...?"

"He's a-sleepin'," said the older Dog with a smile.

George "Goofy" Goof Jr. nodded with a smile, and went to see his son in the nursery. He stepped into the room quietly, careful not to disturb the small resting bundle. He bent over the baby's crib and gingerly picked the child up, cradling him in his strong arms.

They simply stood for a moment like that, Junior supporting little Max in his arms, trying his best to match his breathing to the slow inhales and exhales of the sleeping angel. He thought of Max's mother, who died in the city, a victim of his dangerous former profession, and tightened his hold on the baby briefly, before relaxing once again and resuming the relaxed stance of a father cradling his only child. Their moment of bonding was interrupted, however, by a small noise by the window.

"After I came home I promised I would stay out of the game for good, newbie," said Goofy Junior, quietly, "My little son's already lost his mother. He doesn't need to lose a father as well. This is the very last thing I do 'afore I retire. Understand?"

The Green Phantom sat in the windowsill, nodding. "Where's Darkwing?"

"Keepin' Gizmoduck busy." Carefully, Junior disengaged one of his arms from the baby and reached underneath the mattress of the crib, "I just hope he bought Darkwing taking my family hostage. She gave me this to give you. Better hurry. She can't keep him away for long. I want this out of my father's house before he gets back."

It was a thick binder with the McDuck Enterprises logo on the side. He placed it on a small table on one side of the room before he resumed supporting the baby with both arms. Soundlessly, the Green Phantom shuffled through the room like a ghost, before picking it up and opening it.

"Perfect. Thank you."

"Just go," he said, "And don't come back."

And so, Green Phantom was gone just as quietly and quickly as he left, leaving Junior holding the baby close to his chest.

"That was that, Max," said Junior, "That was that. No more danger. I left you alone for too long and for too many nights already. I'll never leave you again. I'm your father, and I'll always be by your side."

***

"Come back here!" called Gizmoduck, his voice amplified by his suit, "You are under citizen's arrest."

"Give it a rest Gizmo!" cried Darkwing, confident his metallic ears could hear her, "You'll never catch up!"

She then gave a big jolly laugh as she jumped along the roofs, double backing and using tricks of smoke and light to cover her trail. Gizmo, still following by the air, lost track of her as she disappeared in a puff of smoke. He circled around, switching his visor to Infrared vision to try to pick up Darkwing's heat signature.

There, along the sun baked roofs, he could see a small bit of raised body temperature beyond the smoke. He went into a dive towards it, cutting the power to his helicopter, before pointing himself head down with arms outstretched in a dive. He struck the lit-up object, rolling as he tackled it, before switching off his thermal vision.

"Wha-?" he cried, before the space heater, turned up all the way and attached to another smoke bomb, exploded in his face. He was knocked back, but unharmed, except for the strange irritation in his nose.

He sneezed at the pink powder. He sneezed again, trying to roll away from the irritant. He sneezed again, the vibrations of his whole-body convulsion causing him to lose his balance and fall from the roof he was standing on, landing in a flower patch and macking up someone's prize rose bushes.

As he laid out over the bushes, he flailed his arms in anger, his metallic fists shaking with righteous fury, "That was a dirty trick!"

"There's no fair play in this game, Gizmo. You should realize that," said the voice of Darkwing, from a fair distance away.

Suddenly, a screaming woman with a broom came flying out of the house, giving Gizmoduck several wallops. Gizmo held up his arms to shield himself from the blows as he rolled back into the street and began to try triangulating where Darkwing's voice was coming from.

"Spoken like a true hoodlum," said Gizmoduck in answer, while picking straw from the broom out of his joints, "Your kind of darkness isn't needed in my town or anyone else's, Darkwing!"

"It ain't your town," said Darkwing, from elsewhere. Gizmoduck looked around wildly, his triangulation instruments confused by the rapidly moving Darkwing. "Saint Canard was never your town before you jumped into Farid Kagan's pocket, and it isn't yours now."

"And I suppose it was yours?"

"Of course not," She said, "It's not about owning anything. It's about respect. Something you have a surprisingly low amount of."

Gizmoduck rolled up, a sly smile before he said, "Is that what you call protecting dangerous terrorist masterminds? Respect? Well I call that..." He suddenly twisted around and extended his arm. A giant solid Steel boxing glove on a spring popped out, blasting up against a fence and blowing a hole through it and what was behind it, "...EVIL!"

He rolled quickly to check the damage, expecting to find Darkwing's dazed body. However, he merely found a warm speaker with a conspicuous hole through it where the boxing glove passed right through. He turned his head around, to look across the street, down the street, and up in the air.

"You don't have all the fact, Gizmo. You're going off half-cocked, as usual," taunted Darkwing, "If I'm right, you must have known the Duck brothers when they were just kids. What makes you so sure they would do something like hire the beagle boys to attack Duckburg?"

"Whether or not I think they're guilty is immaterial! They are wanted by the law." Gizmo continued to roll along as he searched and kept Darkwing talking. "If they are innocent I believe the power of the due process of the law will find them so. If they are guilty then so be it."

"It must be wonderful to be so naïve, Gizmo," said Darkwing's voice, much closer than last time, "You should know that your boss can throw as much money as he can at keeping those Ducks framed for just as long as it takes for the jury to declare a guilty verdict."

"Mr. Kagan is not the enemy here. My... My mentor trusts him, and I always trust what my mentor says."

"Well, isn't that just dandy."

Suddenly, an arrow struck Gizmoduck right in the face. The gas-chamber on the tip exploded, sending a grey colored gas spraying into his nostrils.

"Hey! Why... I... Ooog.." said Gizmo, as his arms and head went limp, while the balancers in his wheel kept him sleeping upright. Darkwing swooped in from his hiding place and with a determined expression on her face.

That will only last for a few minutes, She thought, and I only have a few of them. Hopefully I can keep him busy long enough for Louie to get out of town with that binder. It may be our only chance at clearing Dewey's name.

***

Domestic life, such as it is, had taken over the Mouseton homestead while Louie was away. The single room was alive with the three girls, lead by the intrepid organizer Webigail Vanderquack, making sure every surface was spotless and tidy, as the three men, lead by José Carioca wielding a hot plate and some cheap pots and pans, put together a modest dinner on their shoestring budget. Dewey was in the process of peeling a potato with a Swiss army knife, while His brother sliced them up into small chunks. They both worked quickly and efficiently.

José smiled broadly as he stood over the hot broth, "Now where do two city-slicker trillionaires learn to peel potatoes like champien's?"

"Junior Woodchucks, Duckburg branch," answered Huey, dropping the sliced potato chunks in a bowl with a flourish, "And lots and lots of practice."

"Uncle Scrooge was always taking us on expeditions and treasure hunts," Dewey said, "We got used to using our Woodchuck training nearly all the time, although..." He put down his knife and shook out his hand, "...Louie was always the better woodchuck out of us. I kind of wish he was here."

"An' what did your Oncle Donal' do on these trips? I remember the last time I saw him he told us about your Oncle Scrooge, an' finding all those treasures an' secret places."

Huey seemed to mentally cool, and so Dewey spoke up, "He, er, He helped. He was a big help."

"Yeah, somebody's got to do all the unskilled labor," sniped Huey.

Dewey gave Huey a sidelong glance, but didn't dispute what his brother said. "Essentially, Uncle Donald was the, er, Muscle."

"You mean like an enforcer?"

"Er, yeah. Sure. Uncle Scrooge was a firecracker when you got between him and his money, but he was an old man by the time we knew him, and we were no slouches, but you just couldn't beat our Uncle Donald when he got wound up about something."

Huey said nothing, as loudly as possible. José couldn't help but notice Huey's cool relationship with his Uncle, and decided to skip it.

"And tell me more of these Janitor Woodchives. I believe we have them in Brazil."

"You probably do," said a voice behind them, "We're like resourceful, well-informed rats. We're everywhere."

"Louie!" cried Huey and Dewey happily as they saw their brother enter the room from the windowsill. The beaming happiness on Dewey's face caused Webby to pause in mid-order to the three girls and smile.

"You miss me?" said Louie as he reached behind himself to retrieve the binder, "I brought you a present, Dewey, to pay you back for that beautiful scotch we had the other night."

"And that hangover you had the nex' morning," volunteered José.

Dewey stood quickly and snatched the binder out of Louie's hands. In a moment it was open on his lap as he sat on the couch, kicking up a large cloud of dust. Webby gave a dirty look to Amalia, who had the good graces to look sheepish.

"This... This is great." He flipped ahead a few pages, reading them over quickly. "The entire last two years of McDuck Enterprises records, along with accounts, money, and all the little iffy business dealings that went nowhere." He looked up, "With Farid's name all over it. Darkwing...?"

"Yup. She left it with an agent in Spoonerville before giving Gizmo the slip." He gave a glance out the window, looking off into the distant direction of Spoonerville. "I hope she's all right."

As Dewey flipped through the binder, he retained the big smile on his face. As he continued to flip, the smile seemed to shrink more and more. By the time he hit the back cover, he had gained a full-on frown.

"What's wrong?" asked Huey.

"It's these records. They're cooked to perfection."

José raised up his boater to scratch his head, "Cooked? As in the potatoes?"

"No. This accounting. It's locked up tight. I thought there were holes in the accounts, but there's so much misdirection I couldn't tell you where anything went, let alone the money being filtered down through criminals in Saint Canard."

"Great. So it's useless?" asked Huey.

"'fraid so," answered Dewey, "Unless we can figure it out this binder isn't worth the paper it's printed on."

Huey and Dewey seemed to droop, but Louie refused to give up hope. As he sat on the window sill, he gave a sly smirk. "How would Farid have figured out how to work this accounting magic?"

"He'd have to use one hell of an accountant," said Dewey.

Louie pounded his palm with a fist, "So that's it! We need a bean counter to help us unravel the number knots, right?"

"But where do we find an accountant that can deal with this mess?" asked Dewey, sullenly.

"Well," began Huey, a bit unsure of his answer, "Remember that accountant Uncle Scrooge hired for a while when we were living with him?"

"Yeah!" cried Louie, "Of course! What was his name?"

However, for a moment, Louie was lit from behind by a great big spotlight. Everyone in the room shaded their eyes from the glare as Louie dived out of the way of the light, hoping his hadn't been seen.

However, "Dewey Duck and company," said an artificially amplified voice, "You and your companions should come out with your hands up, and I won't be forced to hurt any of you."

"What's happening!" cried Rosalina as she huddled with her cousins.

Louie yelled, "It's Gizmoduck! He's found us, but how?"

"He must have followed you, you dummy!" cried Huey, "Suit up everyone, and get ready for a scrap!"

***

"I will count to ten!" cried Gizmoduck as he stood out in the evening twilight, shining the spotlight from a device on his head and drawing a crowd of gawkers around him, "If you have not surrendered yourself by then I will be forced to go in and get you!"

Huey was at the window, looking out over the street and shading his eyes from the shine of the spotlight, "Gizmoduck! It's us! Don't you remember us?" he yelled, "We were friends. You used to work for our Uncle!"

"Regardless of our past, you are wanted by the authorities. I cannot stand idly by while you go free after what happened in Duckburg."

"One second, while we think this over, chum!" yelled Louie, "we always decide on things together, you see."

"All right, you three. You've got fifteen seconds, but no more!"

"Thanks!" And with that the three heads ducked down into the room and began to whisper.

Gizmoduck began to count. On one, he was confident and proud, as he was on two through eight. Once he got to nine, the whispers were still going on, and he began to strain to hear them, but they were still too low for his instruments to pick up. On ten, eleven, and twelve, he began to sweat under his armor, wondering if he gave them too much time to think. Finally, he went slightly faster on twelve through fifteen, and finally shouted, "That's it! I'm coming up," before sprouting his helicopter and coming up to the room to break up that incessant whispering.

His propeller beat the air over his head, raising his body quickly up towards the window. He got closer, keeping the spotlight, now sprouting from the side of his head while the propeller took up the top, focused hard on the window. After a moment he had a clear view of the inside, or at least clear enough without all that smoke in the way.

Smoke!?

Within, there was a huge, pervasive fire set up all around the room. Everything was ablaze, curtains, couch, tables, everything. Gizmo's eyes goggled underneath his visor as he cried out, retreating as the fire licked up out of the window. The whispers, which had been going during all of this, suddenly died out with a buzzing metallic noise, and was silent.

Resisting the urge to swear loudly, Gizmoduck ran back down to the curb, to the nearest fire Hydrant, and retrieved a long fire hose from his chest, which he unspooled and attached with swift accuracy. He then grabbed the valve with his fingers and turned it hard, pointing the hose towards the fire with his other hand. The torrent of water shot out at high pressure, and Gizmo aimed towards the blazing room. To get a better vantage point, he got out his helicopter and flew up to fight the fire on its own terms, and soon all there was left was smoke and damp steam.

He landed on the ground and turned off the water before he was suddenly surrounded by the cheering crowd of gawkers, which he couldn't escape for a minute or two.

"Excuse me. I'm sorry. I must apprehend... thank you ma'am. No sir, please. Thank you, but..."

***

"Did we lose him?" asked Dewey as the lot of them ran down an alley.

"I feel terrible about setting that fire," protested Webby, "we could have..."

"No time for looking back, Senhorita!" called out José with a big smile on his face and slightly singed hot plate in his hands.

"Ay, Tio Carioca!" cried the three girls.

"Don't relax yet in any case," said Louie as they ran out of an alley and across the street to the next one, "Gizmoduck is top-tier as far as powers are concerned. He can seriously beat feet, or, er, Wheel, when he wants to."

"But how did he find us?" said Dewey.

"I'd rather like to know if Darkwing is okay," muttered Louie with a concerned expression.

"I'd rather we stop gabbing and start running," cried Huey, "He's right behind us!"

Everyone looked over their shoulders before their legs started pumping faster.

Behind them, quickly gaining by the sky, Gizmoduck followed along, filling the air with the cliché "Come out with your hands up" retreads they had all heard a hundred times before.

"Split up!" Louie yelled as they came to the exit of the alley they were in, "Meet back at the Sea Duck!"

The group did just that. Huey and Louie broke right quickly, planning to go around and, possibly, fight their way through to the plane. José and family linked hands with each other and continued straight on towards the next alleyway.

"Dewey!" cried Webby as she grabbed his hand and pulled him along to the right.

As Gizmo came to the mouth of the alley, he was stunned for a moment as he felt the urge to chase each small group. He began to go towards the superhero's team, before getting curious about those girls he had never seen before. However, the last group, containing the ringleader, Dewey, seemed like both the easiest group to pick off and the one with the largest quarry. He landed on the ground and retracted his helicopter before rolling to the right and following Dewey and his assistant down the sidewalk.

"Stop! You are under citizen's arrest!"

Dewey and Webby ran even faster at this, sweat rolling down their brows. The binder Webby held close to her chest dug into the sides of her upper arms as she squeezed it to herself.

"What (huff puff) Can we do, Dewey?"

"Just (huff) Keep running (puff)."

They ran on, dodging around street signs and hydrants, trying to figure out the way to the Sea Duck without tipping off their pursuer to its location. Everything seemed hopeless, but they couldn't stop now, not with the evidence in their hands, and victory so close.

"Wak!" cried Webby. She had looked over her shoulder to watch the rapidly gaining hero, and hadn't even seen the fruit stand she ran straight into, flipping over the apply trays and sending herself to land painfully on the pavement behind. The binder flopped open on the ground, sliding away slightly.

"Webigail!"

"Dewey! Take the binder and go! Go!"

But he froze, staring at the binder, then at her, then at the mechanical duck. He ran to Webby without a second though and helped her up.

"No! You idiot! Not me, The book! The-"

"You two are under citizen's arrest," said Gizmoduck as his shadow loomed over the two ducks, who grasped each other for support and cowered.

Webby spoke, "Gizmoduck. It's us. Please..."

Gizmo was just about to pull out a set of his built-in handcuffs, when he finally got a good look at Webigail's face. His automatic facial recognition software began to analyze her face, bringing up a small pop-up in the corner of his vision, telling him what was known about Dewey Duck's personal assistant.

"W-webby?" said Gizmo, who was suddenly trembling, "Is... is that Webby?"

"Yes! Please! Don't turn us in!"

"B-But..." He was rooted to the spot, the hands holding the handcuffs hovering in the air, "I... I must... Webby..."

Suddenly, there was a snap, followed by a buzzing hum, and a great cry floating through the air towards them. Dewey noted that several of the lights around the block had suddenly gone out. Webby noted that behind Gizmoduck another shadowy figure was looming.

Wham! Darkwing Duck, holding in her rubber-gloved hand a cable that sparked and flashed from the exposed wires at the end, landed behind Gizmoduck. Before he could turn around, she gave a primal scream as she drove the end of the wire into Gizmo's back, sending sparks and bolts crackling up and down the Duck of Steel. Darkwing dropped the severed power line after a moment, being careful not to touch the end with her bare foot, and yelled at Dewey and Webby.

"Get out of here!"

"Darkwing Duck!" screamed Webby.

"GO!"

Bolstered by her voice, and by the vision of Gizmoduck seizing up and falling over backwards, straight as a log, Webby and Dewey picked themselves up, each pulling desperately at the other's clothes, before Webby took the binder back up and continued to run on behind her boss. Darkwing watched them go off for a moment, before she turned back towards the immobile Gizmoduck.

"I-I can't move."

"Your suit can take it. You'll probably boot back up in a little while. Meanwhile I'm going to be elsewhere." She began to stroll off, "See you later, tin man. Have a nice life in Farid Kagan's pocket."

"Come back here! You criminal! Terrorist! Traitor! I'll get you yet Darkwing Duck! I'll get you!"

But she was already gone, back up onto the roofs and off to her many safe houses set up wherever she goes.

***

Breathing hard and ragged, Dewey and Webby ran towards the Sea Duck, whose propellers were already spinning. They forced themselves to hurry on towards the passenger side door, where Louie was waiting, waving them in. Webby threw the binder roughly inside, before clambering inside helped up by Dewey, before being followed in by Dewey himself.

Louie closed the door, and Huey started to move the plane forward through the long field they were using for a runway.

The door that connected the pilot's cabin to the passenger area suddenly slammed open, revealing Rosalina, "Behind us Huey!"

"I'm on it!"

Dewey stared out the window, seeing the chrome Duck off in the distance. He wiped the copious sweat from his brow. "Can't this cart go any faster?"

"Almost in the air, Dewey. Patience."

There were no more words after that. The plane bounced once, twice, and suddenly they cleared the trees off in the distance, with Gizmoduck following fast behind.

"Could he still follow us into the air?"

"I'd like to see him try!" called Huey.

But he did not try. Instead, as he watched the yellow plane disappear off into the distance with his quarry aboard, he slowed down, until he had stopped altogether. His hands rose up, trying to pry the helmet off of his head, forgetting for a moment that it was stuck tight until he uttered the codeword.

"B-Blathering... B-Blatherskite..."

Piece by piece, the armor began to peel off. The orange legs were revealed, stepping out of their housings within the single tire. His torso piece and arms fell away from him next, sliding over his legs and tripping him up. He fell on the soft grass, next to the marks made by the landing gear of the SeaDuck, before he crawled out of his chest plate, revealing his strong upper body and thick arms with a simple blue sweater over it.

As he sat up on his knees, his beak quivered. He reached up with his now bare hands and grasped the loosened helmet, lifting it up, revealing a pair of beady, squinting eyes on a slightly chubby face which looked as if it had been much fatter once upon a time. Dropping the helmet on the ground, he began to pat himself down, trying to find the pair of glasses he had to take off before summoning the armor, which naturally corrected his vision. He lifted them out of a pocket before replacing them on his beak and looking up and off into the distance.

"Webby. It's really you. It's been years since... since..."

Doofus Drake sat in the field, surrounded by the various pieces of the armor that made up his whole responsibility. He made no sounds and no moves, but merely moved his eyes, searching the horizon for some sign of his quarry, and for the woman he used to know riding on it with the man he swore to catch.


	14. Episode 14

Episode 14:

Another day, another town. With cooked book in hand the Sea Duck gang flew South, over the border. Their search for one humdinger of an accountant to fix up that binder would have to wait until the coast was clear, and in the meantime, José had the perfect place to hide out.

Huey had nearly passed it right by when he first flew over it, a dinky spot of a village in the middle of the desert, surrounded by a cattle range where a herd of Long horned bulls grazed under the dutiful eyes of the horse backed ranch hands.

José pointed out a primitive landing strip outside of town, essentially just a wide, flat dirt patch far from the town where no unfortunate plane accidents could occur. The plane bounced to a stop, the rough dirt jiggling the passengers around in their seats until they slowed down, and eventually stopped altogether. Louie, now wisely out of costume for the warm, dry southern weather, looked out the windows at the three unpaved streets knitted together in a pair of twin intersection by a slew of brown and grey buildings that were too small to be considered houses and too large to be considered huts.

"This just keeps getting better and better," he said, his nightly habit crying out for a building to climb that was higher than five stories.

"There are no worries Louie," said José, as stood and walked back into the cargo hold, followed by the rest of the group. He pressed the button to open up the cargo hold of the Sea Duck, and continued, "Perhaps it will do us good to live for a while in a place where nothing much happens."

As if on cue, there was a large chorus of clicks and cocks of six-irons and boom sticks of all shapes and sizes arming themselves for action. José, his face showing the slightest modicum of worry, twisted his head from its position looking towards Louie and the rest, who for their part were quite wide-eyed and shocked, to where the sea of metallic sound had come from.

A gang of dirty, angry-looking men, a motley crew of dogs and various common birds, some on horseback, and all in tough leathers, ponchos, and wide sombreros, stood, pointing their various guns up into the cargo hold. Dewey raised his hands in the air and motioned for the rest of them to do the same.

The ringleader yelled at them in barking Spanish, and José translated, "Please, they want us to come with them."

And so it was that the crew of the Sea Duck was lead off of the plane, and marched out towards the tiny excuse for a village.

***

There was an impact on the center of Dewey's back, which forced the duck painfully to his knees. The group had been lead, with jeers and laughs better left untranslated by those among them who knew the language. The door slammed shut as they were forced into the small barred cell, and the three duck brothers each found themselves at the bars, looking out over the room. It was, probably at one point, a simple police station or Sherriff's office, but had been taken over by the flamboyantly dressed cowboys.

Huey looked to the single man who had stayed behind, who had a sombrero over his face, obviously sleeping. He began to speak to the man in Spanish, a language he had a much better command over than Portuguese. He asked why they were being held, that they were simple tourists lost on the way to Mexico City. The sleeper said nothing as he was too busy sleeping.

With no answer to their circumstances in sight, the three boys put their heads together and entered a hushed huddle.

"Do you think it's the VPR? You think they followed us up from Brazil?" asked Dewey.

"Can't be," answered Louie, "These are grade-A rough riding Muchacho Banditos or whatever. They're so Mexican they shit Piñatas."

"Real politically correct, Louie," commented Huey, "They might be taking us ransom. Maybe they think we're just tourists?"

"Tourists, Señor?" The sudden voice, a booming, smiling voice coming from a figure suddenly by the open door, began to speak, "On a beautiful vintage bird filled to the brim with no luggage, no supplies, no camping equipment? I think that is unlikely."

The entire group looked towards the entrance, where there was a silhouette backlit by the bright sun outside. He obviously wore a sombrero, but beyond that, he was too overpowered by the sun to make out any details. Judging by the shape of his feet, he must have been some kind of bird. As he walked, they could hear spurs clinking against the ground. Dewey noted the twin guns at his side as he approached, well within reach, and just one quick draw away from giving them a few leaks.

"Well, well, well. A pretty strange group If I say so," said the voice, thickly accented, "I tell a joke, A businessman, a pilot, and a playboy fly into a cattle range. They scare away a prize Texas longhorn and cause three of the rancher's best men to rush out to wrangle it back up." The shadowy man reached for his twin pistols slowly, and the three Ducks could see the silvery sheen, "What do you think the rancher said to the three men, Pilot, businessman, and playboy?" He cocked back the hammer of one of the guns and pointed it lazily towards the barred cell. "Guess. Is more fun to guess."

"That is enough, Panchito," said a voice from the back of the cell.

"Tio Ca-?" asked Maria, before the green feathered hand rose up to silence her.

"Panchito. Put the gun down."

"Ah-ha! So you have heard of the great Panchito Romero Miguel Junipero Francisco Quintero Gonzalez, eh, stranger?" He took off his large hat and threw it away off to the side and it landed perfectly to stack on top of the hat of the sleeping guard. Now with head uncovered, the boys could see the outline of a rooster's comb atop his head. "Or perhaps you know me better by the name known to my enemies." Both guns were out now and spinning on his two forefingers. "Panchito Pistolas."

"I know you, Panchito," said José, standing slowly and surely, using his umbrella to hobble on, "I only hope that you remember me now that I am an ol' man."

The two men approached the bars, closer, letting themselves be revealed by the light, José with his gracefully aging face and quaint manner, and the rooster, Panchito, with deep, sun-worn wrinkles and crags around his face, his eyes in a perpetual squint from working too long in the sunlight. He wore ranch gear, with chaps over jeans on his legs ending in spurs, and a worn, tanned leather jacket.

"It has been a long time, My frien'" said José.

"YEEEAAAAAAAAHHHOOOOOOOO!!" Cried Panchito suddenly, causing everyone in the room, with the sole exceptions of José and the sleeping guard, to jump in fright. Three shots were fired into the air and Dewey couldn't help but notice the three little shafts of light lancing through the dingy air of the building from three little holes in the ceiling. Suddenly, the jingle of keys, and the merry peals of laughter, and the entire group was free.

"José?" He cried out as soon as the cell door was open. In a moment the two old men were embracing, letting the squeeze of their arms say all that language could not, "Son of a gun! I cannot believe it! What brings you to Chihuahua?"

"I come a penitent ol' man, Panchito," said José, "I regret that I come because we are desperate for a place to hide, Myself and my family, and my frien's."

"Do not speak like that, José! You are always welcome in any house of mine." He then turned and began to bounce around the room, shaking the hands of everyone who had them, extracting their names. "You three mus' be José's leetle Neesies. He writes of you much."

The three girls smiled and each gave a little curtsey.

"And you four I do not recognize. Please, Señorita?" He said, puffing out his chest, still full and strong from his honest work in the range, for Webby's benefit.

She managed a smile, "Er, yes. I'm Webigail Vanderquack. Webby, please." She extended a hand towards the three Duck boys, "And these are my friends."

"Huey," He said, extending a hand with a beaming smile, forgetting already their short stay behind bars.

"Dewey," He said as he looked directly into Panchito's face, a grim resolve setting his features in response to the fear he had been dealt earlier.

"Er, Louie," He said, looking from Panchito to José, his mind connecting the two up to a single distant memory of their time with Uncle Donald.

After shaking, or, more accurately, ripping the arms off, all three boys, he repeated, "Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Where have I heard this Hueydeweyanlouie?"

"Look closer," said José with a wink, "Especially at the one in red. Does he remind you of someone?"

Panchito placed a hand on the underside of his beak and gave Huey a good, long look. As his eyes travelled up and down the pilot, they widened, and his wrinkled face rearranged itself in a warm, amazed smile.

"You! You three are Donald's boys!" Suddenly, all three were entrapped and encircled in a back-breaking hug, with the loud laughing voice pressing into their ears, "Donald's leetle Nephews! Hooey Dooley, and Loobie! How wonderful! José, Why did you not write me to tell of this?"

"I had not the time, my frien'. We are in big trouble."

"Well! You can tell me about it on the way! We must go to my Ranch house! We will throw a fiesta in honor of my friend coming back to me, and my other friend sending his love through his nephews! You will see everything I do here, how your Oncle made it possible for me to begin my cattle ranch, as was my dream. Come! Come! There is much daylight to burn!"

***

Of the many men who only an hour before had had malicious intent on their minds, all of them were now drinking and laughing to the health and longevity of José, to the three Brazilian nieces, to the lovely Webby, and, most of all, to the three Duck brothers. Everyone, it seems, had been told of their adventures so far, and each brother, in his own way, was soaking up the sudden attention.

Huey, yet another mug of frosty beer in his hands and the three Carioca girls surrounding him, was telling a small parade of children, several of them Red-colored hens and roosters, for the third time of the attack of Cape Suzette by the Thembrians and Magica DeSpell, of course, with embellishment.

"So, it was just me and Dewey there against an entire ship full of burly Thembrians. Some kind of a hex had been put on the island, and I was the only one who could stop it," He said animatedly in Spanish to the awestruck audience, "Dewey was cowering in the corner when I slap him and say to him, 'put yourself together!' I says, 'your dime is the only thing keeping us from becoming just like them...!"

As the Raconteur soldiered on, Louie sat nearby, sitting among the adults, who had been full of apologies moments before, but were now full of games and mischief. Darts was the name of the game, and Louie tried not to beat them too badly.

"Triple 18! I guess I win."

The laughs were a little less frequent on this side of the room as the men betting against the plainly-dressed American gringo shelled out their meager pocket change to the Zillionaire. Louie, for his part, laughed heartily and walked straight up to the bar with his winnings, paying for a round of drinks for all of his new friends around the dartboard. With a cheer, the board was set up again and the new bets were made. After all, it must have been beginner's luck that allowed the friendly American to beat their best player so badly.

Elsewhere, at a smaller table by the wall, Dewey sat away from the raucous party he did not feel comfortable in, between José and Panchito as they spoke of the past and of the present. Webby sat next to him, her arms yearning to encircle her boss's.

"This town seems to love you very much," said José, looking out over the festive tavern with an appreciative eye, "You seem to have done well."

"Si! You can thank your Oncle Donald for that, Dewey," He quaffed his beer, before wiping his beak on his sleeve and continuing, "The open range has always been my dream, even if the business is being taken over by all those new devices and machines, I know I can get by with just horses, fences, and open farm country, and of course my wonderful town!"

In answer, every man, woman and child in the bar answered with a bright yell of happiness, which Panchito in turn answered with a bright, beaming smile.

Dewey held back his opinions on this very un-economical way of thinking about things, figuring he should not insult the man who had threatened to shoot him only moments before.

"Mr... er... Panchito..."

"Please Señorita! Simply Panchito is nice."

"Yes. Panchito. You weren't really going to shoot us, were you?" asked Webby, with a pleasant smile.

"You? Of course not miss. These... what do you say? Peas-shooters are only for to show my emotions! I never use them on friends... I..."

"Panchito," said a grim-sounding voice, before he launched into some Spanish. José seemed to lose his ever present smirk, and Panchito all but grimaced at the news.

The voice had come from a short crow, holding a shotgun up to the back of a masked man, a dog, wearing a brightly-colored poncho with a string of numbers on the front. Dewey felt a thrill as he recognized the surefire signs.

"A Beagle Boy!" He called, "Here?"

"They live all over, Dewey, and breed like rabbits." Panchito nodded towards José. "Please. I must deal with this." He then stood and grabbed the Beagle roughly by the shoulder, "Well, Bandito Beagle, I'm sorry to say, but you've rustled my herd for long enough. Sooner or later we shall have your whole gang."

The Beagle's eyes went wide as he was lead out the door of the bar by the rooster. The room, Webby noticed, had gotten a little quieter, as everyone seemed to listen out for their patriarch. As soon as the two had disappeared into the dark outside, the room seemed to pick up again.

BANG!

Dewey and Webby looked at each other, then back to the door. Panchito walked back inside, blowing smoke from his revolver. He holstered it before jerking a thumb out the door, signaling for the crow to clean up the mess outside.

"Anyway! Where were we?" He thought for a moment, not letting Dewey and Webby's stunned reactions get him down, "Ah yes! I would never turn my gun on you fellows. You are like my family."

Dewey couldn't help but think about the fact that Panchito did not know they were family until José spoke up. He just couldn't stop thinking about it, nor could he stop thinking about himself in place of the Beagle Boy outside. He couldn't stop thinking about both facts. He couldn't stop.

Webby placed a hand on his arm, "Panchito, José, We've had a long day, and I think we need to get to bed."

"Oh! Are you sure Señorita? The night is still young!"

"Oh, you can't imagine the jet lag we all have after all that travelling. Come along, Dewey. We'll get you turned in first."

"Er... Yes. Goodnight José. Goodnight Panchito. And thank you once again."

"Don' mention it at all! I'm sure your Oncle would have done the same for my little ones," He said, with a light look towards his little grandchildren gathered around the storytelling Huey.

"An' mine, I'm sure," parroted José, giving a sly look towards his three little girls still fawning over the same storyteller, and smirking at Huey's predicament.

After Dewey and Webby said their goodnights and began up the stairs towards their room, Dewey heard José and Panchito begin to speak. It sounded like Spanish one minute, but like Portuguese the next, and all throughout English words would rear up their heads. The effect was almost entirely unintelligible to the outside listener. Dewey spent a moment as he walked up the stairs trying to discern what the speech was, before realizing what it must be.

They're speaking Caballero, he thought, before giving a single look back towards their table. Both had stopped speaking and were staring quite openly at Louie, who was too busy with games to notice their attentions.

***

It had taken much drinking and many more, different game before his new Mexican best friends had let him finally crawl up to bed, trying his best to act as drunk as they obviously were. He idly wished he could have actually drunk the beer he had pretended to quaff, like his brother Huey did as he continued spinning fish stories for the village kids, but he wanted to explore the town, such as it is, and it would be dangerous to roof-hop even these puny dwarfs with alcohol in his system. Better to abstain until another night, when he was sure there was nothing in the town that could go wrong like there usually happened to be when they visited, well, anywhere.

He adjusted his mask. His costume supplies were running low, including his sad little bottle of spirit gum. He knew he was going to have to either find some other way to cover his face, or start using the kind of mask with the little string.

But no matter, those are trifles for another day, for another person. In the warm embrace of the southern night, the Green Phantom listened to the dead heat of the night, to the vestiges of the party still raging within the tavern, and too the distant sounds of cows, being utterly fascinating.

It is a single, unchallenging jump from one roof to the next, But with the roofs too low to swing over the dirt-lined streets without his legs touching the ground. Instead, he made do with jumping down into the gaps between the buildings before looking out the alley for a clear coast. He then rushed out, exposing himself to the bright moonlight for only a second before disappearing back into the alley across and back up to the roof.

The Green Phantom's patrol went on like this for several minutes, until he had surveyed the entire town. As he began his second lap around, he began to feel a little pang of disappointment.

To relieve it, he stopped rushing about so fast, a pace meant for large towns, or considered a leisurely stroll in large cities. He tried to notice his surroundings, looking out for the signs of people; a dusty footprint; laundry left out to dry; Children's toys lying around in front of porches. He noticed something as he oversaw the town from atop the tavern like a dark gargoyle, or, more accurately, he noticed the lack of something.

From watching Panchito, and how he operated his town, he would have thought that there would be a nightly guard at the edges of the streets where the village ended and the ranch began. At the moment there was nobody.

Perhaps they're all still at the party, he thought idly, but then he remembered the crow who had produced the Mexican Beagle Boy, how he hadn't seen him at the celebration, or any other blackbirds for that matter, even though there were a fair few who had captured them in the first place. Perhaps I simply can't see them, he then thought, It's quite dark.

But no. The best defense for a town like this is to have someone sitting high and visible, to let bandits and rustlers know that this area is being protected. That doesn't fit with having stealth guards. Once he had realized this fact, he began to tread a little more carefully.

He found the tallest place in the village, a bell tower, and jumped inside, being careful not to disturb the bell. He looked out over the entire town from there, and began to sigh. This is what he had to look forward to for the foreseeable future; the exact center of nowhere, Mexico, Population in the double digits, where everybody knows your name and there's some pretty nice beer but nowhere to get a decent hot doughnut at four in the morning, or anything else for that matter. He began to pine a bit. This adventure had led him down a downward urban spiral, until he had finally found stability, joy of joys, surrounded by walking leather jackets and steaks. Against his better judgment, he began to wish that something would happen here, to spin the wheel and sent them living somewhere else again, preferably somewhere with indoor plumbing.

Just as he had thought this, he heard a loud, disorienting noise from behind him. His ears rang, resonating with the church bell that had detonated behind him, and he turned around quickly, holding his hands to his ears. His eyes went wide as he saw the giant brass monster enter a downswing coming right towards him. Just before the extended lip of the bell could smash into him, he fell backwards off of the tower, chancing a couple cracked ribs over an entire crushed ribcage, reaching for his grappling hook. He was too slow, however, to outrun the church roof a mere single story down from his perch, and he struck the thin boards and shingles hard, breaking a hole clean through.

He struck a rotted old rafter as he descended, breaking it clean apart with a loud crack, before landing, finally, in the pews, cracking one of the long church benches right in half.

He gave a lurching groan as he tried to stand, something on the side paining him. A cracked rib, like he predicted. He was still alert, even hunched over a bench in pain, and noticed a sound, a horribly familiar sound, behind him. He turned quickly, trying to stand up through the stabbing pain in his chest bones, and managed to give a convincing imitation of a stand-at-attention.

The black cape and costume tipped him off first, the single-eyed mask last. Somewhere in between came the lined face and usual duck features.

"Yo-" It hurt to speak. He had a small thrill of terror at what this might mean, before he went on, forcing himself through the pain, "You again."

The man said nothing, instead letting his wide cape billow behind him as he leapt towards the Green Phantom, tackling him to the ground. He applied pressure to the offending rib, causing GP to scream out in pain, before swiping out with his hands.

There they were, two costumed vigilantes, rolling around the dirt floor of a village church, wrestling, trying to wrest control of the situation from the other. Grunts and yells were voiced, lost in the night air. Every so often someone's hand would strike out, trying to find purchase in a face or gut, or a foot would swing around, trying to connect with something soft and vulnerable. The Green Phantom had fire in his eyes as he used his strong arms to push and pull his opponent off of him, away from him, towards him, trying to get him into a useful position where the advantage would go to the Phantom. However, The Green Phantom could feel the years his opponent had on him, the subtle maneuvers that gave him the advantage, the not so subtle abuse of GP's wounds for his own sake. It was all he could do keep his head above water, with nothing to say of winning.

Finally, GP found an opening, using both legs to push the black clad hero off of himself, and scrambling to his feet, not even noticing the pain in his ribs anymore.

"Who are you!" he yelled, "Why are you following us! I demand to know who you are!"

The one eyed vigilante slowly stood to his feet, before saying, "I am known by many names, in many places."

"Just one will do, buddy."

The figure paused, his single eye unmoving as he sized up the Phantom. He straightened out, spreading his shoulders apart and puffing his chest out.

"You may call me... PK."

"PK. What's that stand for?"

But the one known as PK avoided the question, "I've been watching you all for some time."

"That goes without saying."

"You in particular, Louie. You have assigned yourself as a protector, one who defends the rights and freedoms of others, and yet you are unfocussed. Your skills, though many, are ill-used or downright ignored."

"Cry me a (ow) god damn river. I'm doing the best that I can."

"Which is exactly why you are not worthy of your position," PK said, "All three of you have had to learn your own way, Huey using the easy way he fits in most places, Dewey using his knowledge of money. Both of them respected the gift Scrooge left you all."

"Is this...? Are you talking about the inheritance?"

PK continued, "Instead of relying on yourself, on the training you had received by virtue of your past, you chose to buy things, to try to use Scrooge's money as a crutch."

Louie's eyes broke, and began to look away, "I... So? It's my money now. I used it for useful... for supplies. You don't really expect me to be like... like Dewey do you? I couldn't live like that."

"I expect you to use what you have. You already had everything you needed to be a hero by the time you had grown, and yet..."

"Fine! Fine! The toys were a bad idea. I'll never do it again, boo hoo. (urg, boo-hoos hurt) But who are you? Really?"

"You don't remember...?"

At this, Louie strained his memory, trying to find who this strange rogue would represent. After a moment, he blinked.

"There... In Duckburg there was a masked man like you once..."

"Yes?"

"Just for awhile, after Uncle Donald had come back from the war and Gizmoduck had moved to Saint Canard. He... That was you, wasn't it? God, I can't even remember your hero name."

PK said nothing.

"So you're trying to tell me you're some... some ghost from our past who chose now, in our darkest hour, to come in and beat us up? Some hero."

"I've come to test you, to make you all better. You are the one that needs the most improvement."

Breathing hard, the Green Phantom lowered down, to a more useful position, like a coiled spring. PK did similarly, reading the intent for a fight on the younger Duck's face and body language.

"I'll show you a test (ow dammit) you'll never forget."

After a moment of silence, the two masked figures exploded, leaping towards each other like two wildcats, screaming with ragged duck voices on their approaches.

***

José was up early, sitting next to a window by the tavern, a cup of tea warming his throat as he glanced nervously out the window. The drawn curtain over the window let none of the dawn light in, except for the moments where he moved the rough cloth out of the way to let in a bit of light, and let himself see out into the grey morning.

"You're up early," said a voice, Dewey, "why...?"

José looked up at Dewey's face, kindly, with a weary smile, "I suppose I'm so used to rising early to make breakfast for guests. Even with last night's festivities, I cannot break a habit." He lowered his eyelids and gave Dewey a strange, smirking glance, "What is your excuse? I hope you slept well."

Dewey's eyes looked away, even as his face rose up to meet José's, "I... slept fine."

"That is good."

"Yes."

"Sleep gives you strength for the next day."

"Y-yes."

"So it is a very good thing you had a good night's sleep..."

"Right."

"And haven't simply stayed up all night fretting or some such."

"I..."

But José had finished the conversation, and had moved on, speaking as he looked out the window, "I'm worried about our Phantom friend."

Dewey breathed out, letting the hot stone of guilt settle back down in his stomach for later, "Green Phantom? Did he go out?"

"Louie left the party early. He was clearly drunk while going up the stairs and yet was sober as a grave in the hall. This of course has nothing to do with the Green Phantom..."

"...right. And he hasn't come back?"

"I worry about him. I worry about all three of you. Before you came to me in Rio I only remembered you as sweet leetle boy scouts, and now I know you as... I hate to say it... You have grown into men and I never even got to meet you in between. I worry."

Dewey nodded and sat, taking a teacup from the tray and measuring himself out a cup, "You don't have to worry, José. We can take care of ourselves."

José didn't seem to listen, and went on, "I worry about you, Huey, an' how much he seems to hate poor Donal' for leaving you all. I can't begin to understan' it, but I cannot judge. I worry about Louie, and whatever is driving him out into the street when he should be in bed sleeping."

"We..." Dewey began to speak, "Our parents..."

José seemed interested, but deferred to his better judgment, "You do not have to tell me if you do not wish to. I cannot pry where I do not belong."

"No! I... It's just that our... father died when we were very young."

"I am sorry."

"It was... It wasn't really any of our faults. It was just a silly prank that went out of hand. We'd gotten our hands on some fireworks, and wanted to give our father a scare, and... Well..."

"I see. And your mother?"

Dewey sighed and took a sip, feeling the weight of the information lifting off of him, "We've never really... We never talk about this, even with each other, but I just know how much it affects Huey... affects all of us in a way. Our Mother had a nervous breakdown after Father died, and she sent us to live with our Uncle Donald before she jumped off of the roof of the tallest building she could find in Duckburg." He closed his eyes and gulped. "Nobody even let us know she was dead until we were teenagers. We all thought she was in a home somewhere. When they finally let us know she was dead, we went searching for her obituary, but couldn't find it. It was finally Louie who went searching the records at the library, and found out we and been lied to for ten years.

"Of course, even before that, Huey... Huey suffered without a mother, you know? Louie and I, I think we turned out just fine. Donald and Uncle Scrooge were the best parents we could have ever had, but Huey felt like he had been betrayed or something. When Uncle Donald re-upped with the Navy during Korea, well, none of us were ever the same. Huey was the first to move out, and you know how he gets when anyone ever talks about Uncle Donald. Louie, on the other hand, clung to Donald like a leech or something. I... Well... I thought I would try to follow in Uncle Scrooge's footsteps."

Leaning back, José added, "Just three leetle boys who want to be loved, eh?"

"I... suppose."

"You are much more observant than I give you credit for, Dewey." José took a final sip of his tea before putting the cup down. "Or at least you used to be."

Sensing the conversation taking a nasty turn, Dewey looked down into his tea, trying to lose himself in it.

"Of the three of you, I worry about you most of all. You know? I watch you. You do not eat, you do not sleep. You barely notice the people around you except when they are talking to you or talking about money." He held up his hand. "The other two, they love Oncle Donald. They learned from Oncle Donald. They were raised by Oncle Donald." He held up his other. "You however..."

"I know, Oncle... I mean, Uncle Scrooge. I admire him. Is that wrong?"

"Of course not, and if you are happy, he will be happy, but you have to do what you want, not what you think he wants from you." Before Dewey could protest, José went on. "Do you want to be a businessman?"

"Yes, of course!"

"A good strong answer. I believe you. So why are you miserable?"

"I... I'm not..."

"You are and there is no use denying it. You were happy when you were running my Pousada, even if it was a funny sort of happy, and you were held back by the need to stay small, but when you are at the head of McDuck, or even THINK about being at the head of McDuck, you break out in ulcers and you do not eat. It is because you wish to make your own business, yes?"

"No! I've still got to run McDuck Enterprises."

"You will never be Scrooge McDuck, Dewey."

"But I can try, dammit. The company can still grow and change, and become mine..."

"You still carrying around your Oncle's dime?"

"Er... yes..."

"Louie told me about it, about how Scrooge's will say's that the Dime be used."

"Yes, I know."

"That he wanted you to let go of it. Let go of him. Be free to make your own choices and fortunes."

"I know."

"And yet..."

"I..." Dewey stood, his brow creasing. "I can't believe I'm talking about this. Thanks for the tea."

"I can make you some breakfast if you would like."

"No, thank you!" said Dewey curtly, before something large wrapped in a blue tarp with twine came crashing through the window, sending broken glass and the rough curtain billowing to the floor.

Both men cried out for a moment, José standing up, dropping the teacup to the dirt floor with a crash. For a moment, the two men and the tarp-wrapped thing were motionless, waiting for something to happen. Suddenly, the tarp twitched.

Dewey's eyes were wide.

"José! Go get Huey and the others," He said, dropping to his knees and whipping off his jacket to brush off the shards of glass on the tarp, "And Panchito as well. I think he should see this."

"Si! S- Si!" And he was gone, up the stairs to alert Huey and Webby of the event. He resolved, however, to let his daughters sleep.

Dewey's hands found the knot on the twine, and hacked at it with a butter knife from the tea tray. If finally gave out just as Huey came down, bleary-eyed and still in dreamland, followed by Webby, same.

"Wha' happened?" asked Huey.

But Dewey didn't answer, he merely pulled apart the tarp, revealing what was inside.

There, laying near motionless except for the natural movement of breath, was Louie Duck, his mask ripped from his face and torn in half. His body was blue and purple from welts and bruises, and in a few places blood drained from open wounds.

"Louie!" cried Webby.

"What happened?"

Dewey reached over to a piece of ripped up paper stuck to the 'GP' on his brother's costume with a pin, and pulled it closer to read it.

An accountant is being held in the Khan Building.

-PK, A friend.

"PK?" asked Huey, looking over Dewey's shoulder at the brief note. "We can't trust this, can we? Look what... He massacred Louie!"

"You're right. We can't... AH!" He called out in surprise as Louie's bloodied knuckles rose up and grasped Dewey's wrist in a crushing grip.

"T... t...."

Webby was on her knees at Louie's side, already using a towel soaked in strong spirits retrieved from behind the bar to clean the blood and disinfect the wound, "Please, Louie. Don't talk. You're going to be all right."

"Y... you... have... to..." He had a sharp intake of breath, his eyes blinking away the pain, "Trust... him..."

He then passed out completely, leaving the three ducks to ponder the message.


	15. Episode 15

Episode 15:

"Urg..."

Bandages and tender loving care had made a mummy out of Louie Duck. For the foreseeable future, his heroing days were on hold. Louie tried to move an arm, to scratch an itch, but the sudden pain in his chest caused him to go right back to a more neutral position.

"You shouldn't move, Louie," said Webby, who was sitting over the superhero with a first aid kit in her lap. The hero, for his part, was at the moment strapped into a fully reclined seat on the Sea Duck, in sore agony.

"He's awake?"

"Yes, Dewey, but... Be gentle. He's in a lot of pain."

Dewey walked up into Louie's vision. Louie noted for a moment the vibrations underneath and the steady buzz of the propellers that told him they were in the air. Louie tried to speak, but his ribs protested every breath.

"Where...?"

Dewey answered quickly, "Heading towards Bombay. The note you told us to trust says there's an accountant being held at the Khan building."

"Is... that so?"

"Despite it being the silliest thing I ever heard of, and being too convenient for my taste, you told us to trust it, and here we are."

Louie wanted to nod and look content, but pain set his features.

"I want to know what happened to you. Who is this 'PK.' Did he beat you up?"

"Y-yes."

"Then why should we trust whatever he says?"

"Just... I can't say..."

"Why not?"

"I..."

Webby snapped at her employer, "Dewey. He's had enough. Let him rest."

Looking from Webby to Louie, Dewey scowled, "I still don't like this one bit."

Louie wasn't finished, however, his eyes scanned the amount of cabin he could see, "Where is... José?"

Webby answered as she pulled out a roll of bandages, before gently unwrapping the old ones, revealing the ugly wounds underneath, "He stayed behind in Chihuahua. He said he wanted to stay out of our way, and catch up with Panchito."

"That's... for the... best," struggled Louie, "The girls... too?"

"W-well..." Said Webby, as she gave a glace towards the closed door leading to the pilot's cabin.

***

Huey was trying his very best to keep his eyes on the sky, but when you have three Brazilian girls who don't know enough English to talk your ears off orbiting around you looking more stacked than a pile of thousand dollar bills, it's sometimes difficult to concentrate.

"So. Girls," He began, trying to make conversation, "Your Uncle said you could come along with us?"

"Sim!" said Rosalina, "We asked to come with you Huey."

"We wan'ned to help as much as we can," said Maria.

Amalia spoke something in Portuguese Huey couldn't quite parse, and all three girls giggled.

"Well, that's great!" he said, "Your Uncle had some words with me before we left."

"Really?" "What did..." "...disse?"

Huey paused, his eyes rolling up into his head, soaking up the memory from a few hours before.

***

"Huey, I have something to say."

"Yes, Joe?"

"You keep my girls safe."

"Can do!"

"Even if they do not see me so, they are my daughters, and I love them very much."

"I know, Joe."

"Keep them happy and content for as long as you know them."

"I will."

"And if you break any of their hearts keep in mind even if I am a pleasant, non-violent ol' man I am friends with a gun-crazy cowboy who is in the habit of shooting first, asking questions never."

"Yes, Jo... oh?"

"Have a pleasant trip."

***

Huey tried not to sweat as three pairs of hands clamored to touch his arms and shoulders as subtly as they could manage. Three girls! That's a man's dream. Three girls clamoring for his attention and if he picks any one girl over the others he will have to worry about taking care of the brand new hole in his head.

"Huey? You haven't answered the question. What did he say?"

"Oh! Er..." He laughed, "That he loves all three of you very much. And he'll miss you."

The three girls smiled at each other, and Huey couldn't help but feel the triplet smiles as looking a bit smirky.

***

Webby looked away from the cabin and back to Louie, "Yes, they asked to come."

Louie looked like he wanted to laugh, but no sound came out. "Ugh, funny hurts..."

"Enough nonsense," said Dewey, "Now that you're awake we need to make a plan. We certainly won't be able to pull that janitor trick twice. We need to find a way in to save whoever is in there."

"Don't... look at... me..." said Louie as Webby changed out his bandages, "I'm out of the game... for a while..."

Dewey scratched his chin, "But how?"

"A single... A single man... could get in, stealthy-like."

Webby's head shook wildly, "Oh no! Don't you even think about it!"

"I'm not...! I'm not...! Don't... don't worry. Just... tell Huey..." His less-bruised arm began to move towards his utility belt, to Webby's concerned look. "Take this... use the Sea Duck's radio..." he said, pulling out a piece of paper with a string of numbers on it, "Call this Radio wavelength... Say... Say, 'Gadgets... McQuack over Bombay. Requesting help...'"

Webby took the paper and nodded, before walking over and into the pilot's cabin.

"What will that do?"

"You'll see. She'll meet us... in Bombay." He finally managed a smile. "We've got nothing to worry about."

***

From the Sea, to the land, two planes converged on a hidden position, one, a well-preserved antique, another, a science fiction dream living through years of neglect from being owned by a non-pilot. The Thunderquack had pulled ahead of the Sea Duck through sheer speed, and was waiting for about thirty minutes before the yellow Conwing L-16 came down from its flight. Soon, the passengers of the plane began to pour out.

Before anyone could say a word, Darkwing had surveyed the group. "Where's GP?"

Dewey, at the fore, pointed towards the door he had come through to exit the plane. Darkwing rushed through with a rustle of her cape, and gasped at what she saw inside.

"Gadgets! What happened?"

"Oh. Hi DW..." Said Louie, his mummified remains smiling weakly, "...how's tricks?"

"What happened?" She repeated, before turning around and rounding on the nearest of Louie's companions, who happened to be Webby, "What happened?"

"He, er," She shrank back from the masked woman's piercing gaze and bellowing voice before answering. "He got in a fight, with someone named 'PK.'"

"...PK?" her face had frozen into a strange expression of surprise and worry.

"Yes. That's what he called himself," said Dewey, stepping between Webby and Darkwing subtly, "We met him once before, when he helped us escape from the Iron Vulture."

Huey smiled. "And beat you up in the process if I recall."

"Er... yes. Well, we met him again and Louie suffered for it. Do you... does he run in your circles?"

Darkwing shook her head, "He is a superhero if that's what you mean, but no, he's generally not my ally, or anyone else's for that matter. He's not very well-known outside of the community, but in the community he's... well, he's sort of a legend, y'know?"

"Do tell."

"Well, you remember that alien invasion we had a few years back?"

Huey, Dewey, Webby, and the three Carioca girls all looked blank. Huey was the one who got it together enough to say, "No."

"Exactly, because he did his job, and well. I don't even want to know how you fellas got onto his bad side, but... hoo boy!"

"Believe me," said Dewey, rubbing his beak, "I know."

"Anyway," Darkwing said after a tense little pause. She turned back towards Louie's reclined state and knelt down next to him. "What do you guys need from me?"

Huey climbed onto the plane and began to speak for the weakened Louie, "We need you to airdrop into the Khan building. There's apparently someone being held there."

"And how did you hear about this?"

Louie spoke up, "The son of a bitch... that caved... my head in."

Darkwing looked into his face for a moment before giving a little 'huh.' "I thought you guys were on his bad side."

"Well we're... not exactly... friends."

There was another pause as Darkwing considered this. She stood up from Louie's side and walked up to Huey, "You'll be my pilot, right?"

"If you'll have me, Ma'am."

She nodded, "Alright then. We'll wait until tonight, and we'll take the Thunderquack. It's stealthier. You drop me off and I'll get your man out of there within two hours..."

***

"Launchpad McQuack was here."

"How the hell do you know that?"

Huey and Darkwing were sitting, side-by-side, in the Thunderquack, Darkwing looking bewildered at the various buttons and switches she's never bothered to use, simply content to use the simpler remote control setting when she needed to fly, Huey looking nostalgic as he pressed those same switches and buttons now in preparation for their trip. The sky above was dark, and getting darker.

"It's just a hunch. He had a... peculiar way of taking care of his instruments."

"Let me guess."

"Guess away."

"It's the chewing gum and band-aids, isn't it?"

"Got it in one." He smiled as he picked a particularly nasty piece of pink goo out from within the control machinery. "Makes me a little nostalgic for the good old days, y'know?"

"I guess," She looked over the control panel and took stock of her supplies: Parachute. Bow and quiver. Costume on straight. Check. She had a thought. "Whatever happened to Lunchpad, anyway?"

"I'm sure he's still kicking. After I left to go learn from Mr. Cloudkicker, last I heard he'd joined the circus as a stunt pilot."

"How is he not dead yet?"

"Beats me. I looked him up once, and his world record for survived crash landings is so high that it is expected to stand for the next fifty years or more, and if the experts are right, it will claim the lives of hundreds of pilots trying to break it."

"That's a little dismal, Huey."

"You asked." He looked at his watch. "One Half-hour until takeoff. Got everything Dee-Doubleya'?"

"Oh god, don't YOU start call me that."

"Huh?"

"That's what Launchpad used to call my... used to call Darkwing Duck the first. It's weird."

Huey smiled as his eyes looked up towards the sky, "believe it or not, I think I know how you feel."

The two looked at each other, seeing in the other the child trying desperately to live up to the parent in one way or another. They exchanged a sly smile and Darkwing held out her hand.

"Darkwing is fine for now."

Huey shook it, "Alright Darkwing. Whatever you say."

Suddenly, their heads were turned by a commotion outside, along with a loud cry.

"No! Louie!"

At this, The canopy of the Thunderquack was open and Darkwing had jumped out, her cape billowing out behind her. Like a shambling corpse, there he was, ambling down from the Sea Duck on stiff legs, stiff arms, and stiff everything.

"What the hell are you doing, Gadgets?" she yelled at him, before turning to Webby, who was standing by, afraid to touch him, "What is he doing?"

"I... Louie! Let me help you back into the plane."

"S-stop! I... I have to... Darkwing, I want to talk to you." He turned slowly, and nearly fell. Darkwing placed her hands over his shoulders, supporting him

"What are you doing, you idiot. You need rest."

"You... You don't have to do this for us..."

"Oh boy. I've never seen this scene before. Get back to your seat, Gadgets. You're hurt bad."

"No. Really. You've done so... so much for us already... I feel bad for... for dragging you into... my family's problems."

"You're welcome, now please..."

"You don't have to... It's not your fight."

"Gadgets..." She said, before she plunged her head forward towards his. Their beaks met suddenly, and Gosalyn closed her eyes. Louie was too stiff and weak to move or resist, so he simply went wide-eyed as he was kissed by the young goose. Then his eyes closed as the fluttering feeling in his stomach settled into a warm contentment that overshadowed the pain in his chest and limbs. Soon, too soon, Gosalyn broke away from Louie's beak. "...Shut up."

"O... okay..." said Louie, before he let himself be led back aboard the Sea Duck by Webby.

Darkwing turned back towards the Thunderquack, and could see Huey sitting in the pilot's seat, with a shit-eating grin, and both thumbs extended high in the air. Darkwing blushed underneath her mask as she walked back to her place in the passenger's seat, and was forced to give Louie's brother a high-five, since he was at the moment unable.

Soon, the Thunderquack was high in the air, screaming towards the Khan building.

***

The Khan building was lit up like the Fourth of July. Four spotlights searched the skies as an endless parade of guards patrolled the roof and viewing balconies of the tall building. In the cloudy skies, the dark Thunderquack circled overhead, concealed and silent. Unseen by anyone, the canopy opened, and a small figure jumped. The jet was soon off, disappearing over the horizon, ready to come back in two hours or at the call of the violet-clad goose whose small parachute blew open, letting her billow towards the top of the roof, directing herself nimbly between the exposing beams of the searchlights.

Soon, she was close enough that she could let the parachute go. It detached from her, and billowed up, suddenly free from the weight. Before it could stumble into the path of a searchlight, Darkwing pressed a device in her sleeve as she fell the short distance to the flat surface of the top viewing deck, just behind one of the Beagle Boy guards. There was a bright flash as the Parachute immolated suddenly. Every eye on the roof turned towards the flash, and every set of feet went off to investigate, leaving the nondescript patch of shadow containing Darkwing Duck alone.

With the guards busy with the distraction of the burning parachute, Darkwing was able to easily sneak towards the roof access door, and inside.

***

First order of business, She thought, Is finding out where this guy is.

To facilitate this, her first stop was the first floor, where the main guard hour was located. Forcing the Elevator shafts open was easy enough, and using the cables and a few trick arrows to slow the descent to get up and down in the building was as easy as falling off a really tall log. The tricky part was avoiding getting yourself crushed by the elevator itself as it went its merry way.

She had been lucky on this first trip. She's come into the shaft underneath the elevator, so she wouldn't have to try to go down through the car, but on the other hand, she would have to work fast and go down before someone below tried to call the elevator.

She had been travelling for a long time, and she had counted the floors as she went. Eventually, counting gave way to another way of passing the time.

Hi Dad, she began to think, How are you? I'm sorry I haven't called, but I've been sort of busy. We followed that Steelbeak lead, remember? It led all the way back to McDuck Enterprises. Actually, I guess it's more Khan Industries than McDuck, but Khan is a subsidiary. The new CEO Farid Kagan as the baddie this time. It sounds so white collar, I know, and it is, but Louie... The Duck family needs me. They have... extreme ideas about money.

I, er, hope that kiss wasn't too forward. Having a mom to ask for advice would have been awesome for times like this. Like I said before, you'll like him. He and his family is good people, They're the closest I've ever come to meeting an entire family of legacy heroes without actually having a masked hero involved. I suppose their Great Uncle Scrooge is probably who counts as 'the hero' of this outfit, but there's also murmurs about their other Uncle Donald, who actually raised them.

Right now I'm in an elevator shaft hoping to high heaven nobody tries to use the elevator. I need to find an accountant so they can scan some cooked books before presenting them to S.H.U.S.H. Like I said, white collar. Barf. At least there's shades of someone being held hostage. I wonder why. He probably -knows too much.-

DING! The sudden noise chilled Darkwing's heart to the core. She was nearly to the bottom hanging on the elevator cables with a grapple arrow, but she could feel something starting to move through the cables. She looked up.

Like a freight train, there it was heading down towards her position. The elevator car, one of the high-speed models used in especially tall buildings, was rocketing to the ground, and she was in the way.

She gave a yell before she let go of the cable, letting herself fall towards the nearest elevator door, the entrance to the third floor. Drawing a thick arrow from her quiver, she began to pry at the door quickly, trying desperately to outrun the speeding car. There was a little give, but not enough, not for how fast this elevator was coming. Her arms burned with the effort, trying to wedge the arrow in more and more, trying to outrun certain death.

Suddenly, the arrow went deep, triggering the automatic mechanism in the door. It began to open by itself, and even before it was open all the way, Darkwing was through it and on the floor.

There was a sudden tug at her neck that caused her to choke for just a moment, before she was free again. She looked back and noticed that a piece of her cape had been sliced clean off by the fast-moving elevator, leaving a clean rip as if from a pair of scissors. She gulped, keeping in mind that being a little cheap with the cape material saved her life this day.

But enough standing around, she needed to get out of the open. She looked back into the open elevator shaft, and saw the car had stopped on the first floor. She jumped down, figuring she only had a moment before it would start moving again. She landed with a thump, and instantly opened the top emergency hatch, jumping inside.

"What the!"

The Beagle Boy security guard inside had his jaw broken and his head concussed before he could alert any of his friends and relations about what was going on. As he laid out on the ground of the elevator, the dark shadow that had assaulted him flitted out and into the first floor.

She came out in the bright entrance hall, towards the back. Quickly, she found a door marked "Employee Only" in English, Hindi, and a multitude of other languages, before stepping inside.

The hall she stepped into was starkly lit by fluorescent light and was quite bare, unlike the warmly decorated front hall. On either side were several blank doors that each held the promise of opening up suddenly and exposing her, if her little stunt in the elevator didn't do that first. She rushed down the hall, searching for a sign, which she soon found. It said "Security Room."

She counted to three, and then went in.

There were three of them, Beagle boys all. One was sleeping and the other two were passing a cat's cradle back and forth. There was the overwhelming stench of prunes in the air. The first beagle, his back to Darkwing, went down with a single strike to the head. The second, who had stared wide-eyed at DW as she did so, tried to reach for his gun too late. Her webbed foot found his head, dazing him long enough for the sleeping third to be taken out quietly, Jolting awake from the shock of the Chloroform-tipped arrow, before going back to sleep, and for good this time. With all three splayed on the floor, Darkwing spent a moment to look around, making sure no silent alarms were going off. She noted all of the cameras she must have appeared on and, just for a moment, thanked the BBs for being so obligingly incompetent.

Back to business. She pushed the sleeping Beagle off of his seat and sat down, rolling the chair around to manipulate the consoles and check the various cameras around the building.

She began to ponder, If I was a Megalomaniacal CEO of a famous corporation, where would I hide someone I've kidnapped in my high rise office building without anyone finding out?

Click. Click. Click. She flipped the channels, checking through each view one by one, trying to see what they felt what was worth looking at. Multitudes of static images paraded by, some filled with scenes of patrolling guards or the odd office peon putting in a late night. She kept on with the check, going through each floor one by one, until she got to something that caught her eye.

The screen was dark. Not dark as in the room was dark, but dark as in 'this camera has been tampered with' dark. It was working, to be sure. There was no static or interference, but at the same time the room wasn't being projected, as if someone had placed something in front of the lens. Noting down the room, she stood to investigate. An office, midway up the building, smart place to put a hostage to be sure. Most evil millionaires can't resist hiding the victims on the top floor somewhere conspicuous when locking them up in a random office behind a mountain of 'do not enter' tape would probably be smarter.

Giving each Beagle Boy another dose of sleepy medicine from her quiver, Darkwing Duck swooped out of the room, confident that with the guards asleep, she would not have to worry about cameras.

***

How long had he been there? A year? Two? Five? A hundred? In the parade of days, in the just enough food to survive, in the wondering when or if he would ever see the sun again, the man wrapped in the rough brown blanket had lost himself. Why are they keeping him alive? There must be some reason.

He did as he had done for however long it's been. He sat, and waited. Eventually his jailer, Farid Kagan, would come in, taunt him, bring him stale bread to live on. He would be powerless to stop him, or his plans.

The light came on in the crack under the door, and the shrouded man tensed all over. He could hear the sound of something being inserted into the lock. It wasn't a key, however, and he found himself furrowing his brow at this breach of tradition.

Suddenly, a light snapping explosion occurred towards the door. His eyes fixated on the afterimage the slight flash had left in the corner of his vision, and he felt his eyes trying to follow beyond their capacity to track the quickly fading patch. Soon he was able to blink it away, and he found that the room was bathed in light from the door, the long shadow of a figure in a wide hat being cast from the doorframe.

A memory stirred, from before all this, He recognized that shadow.

"Darkwing Duck?" he said, the first words he's said in an age.

The figure stepped into the room and tried the light switch, noting that it was completely dead. "Someone in here? I can't see you."

Darkwing had to suppress her startle as she saw the shrouded figure lurch into the light from the hall, holding up white feathered arms to protect his sensitive eyes. After that, another instinct came to the fore, one without some degree of which becoming a superhero would be a futile exercise. With a look of compassion, she approached the stranger.

"My God. What did they do to you here?" She asked, her arms slinging over his shoulder to support the taller duck. She noticed that underneath his blanket he was completely naked.

"Darkwing Duck. It's... Been a long time."

"You knew... You know me?"

He looked closer, his unaccustomed eyes slowly readjusting to the concept of light, "You're different. You're..."

"I get that a lot." She raised his arm, so frail and thin, over her own shoulder and began to help him towards the door, "Come on now, We're going to get you to safety."

With her support, the tall duck was led out into the hall. It was as if someone had taken a normal sized duck and stretched him lengthwise to the breaking point. His face was quite unkempt and unshaven, and his feathers grew wildly around his entire body. His eyes were sunken in, and squinted at even the meager night time illumination left in the building after hours.

"It can't be... Little... The little girl? Gosalyn?"

She blinked hard, before turning her face to look at him, "How do you...? Who are you?"

"There she is! Get her!" yelled a voice suddenly. That's when Darkwing noticed the platoon of Beagle Boys coming around the corner.

"Oops!" was all she said as she turned, helping the frail prisoner hobble along in the opposite direction, where another platoon of Beagles appeared.

"Blathering Blatherskite..." said the stranger, with all the weight of an expletive.

"Excuse me?" she said, before remembering the threat. She looked out of the windows of the hall, large floor-to-ceiling picture windows that did not open and needed one hell of an impact to break.

As the twin walls of Beagle security guards approached, an explosive-tipped arrow provided just such an impact.

"Come on!" Darkwing yelled, grabbing the thin man by the waist and jumping out of the shattered window.

The two figures fell for a moment, before Darkwing pulled out a grappling arrow, not even bothering to knock it, instead merely throwing it towards the building, hoping it will stick. For his part, the man hanging from her arms by his waist seemed to be taking the excitement well. In a stroke of luck, the grappling arrow was able to grab onto a viewing balcony, and the two figures clutching to each other were jerked to a stop by the strong cord.

Gripping the other body to herself, Darkwing dared to open her eyes, looking up at the caged viewing balcony that had saved her's and her companion's lives.

"Are you okay?" she said.

"I'm fine," he answered.

"Lovely. Grab on tight."

She then began the labor of climbing up the strong cord, the surprisingly light man clutching to her back.

"Where... Where do we get picked up?"

"The roof. If I'm right, he should be there by now. We need to find some way to get up th... oh!"

"Hello Girly! Miss me?" called the lecherous voice of Boner Beagle, dressed in his best greasy security guard uniform. He had poked his head over the balcony, and was stroking the cord holding them up in the air like a lover.

"Boner Beagle!" she yelled as her arms screamed from the effort of hanging from the rope, "What are you doing here?"

"What all of my Beagle Brothers and Cousins are doing, guarding Mr. Kagan. And... oh-ho! I see you've got Mr. Kagan's little project strapped to your back there." He twanged the rope like a guitar string, and Darkwing could feel the vibration through her hands. "I still need to pay you back for that broken nose you gave me back in Duckburg."

"Don't you dare!"

"I'm sure Mr. Kagan will be six kinds o' sad when he learns his little pet is dead and gone, but he'll be very happy once he knows The Darkwing is dead."

"I'm warning you..."

"Not to mention," He laughed wildly in the middle of the sentence, his greasy hair flinging every which way, "Not to mention I still have to pay you back for the fork in the fancy-pants restaurant. I know it was you, chicky. I never forget a dame."

Looking around wildly for anything she could use, she ultimately came up short, her fate ultimately up to the maniac above.

"O'course, I could see clear to let you up..." He smiled the wide toothy smile of his kin, along with the requisite gold tooth. "...if..."

Getting his insinuation, Darkwing Duck grimaced, "Go to hell!"

"You first. Bye bye baby."

With that a quickly drawn switchblade began to slice through the rope holding them up.

"Darkwing, I'm getting a little worried," said the stranger at her back.

"I know. I... I..."

Just then, the rope gave, and the two hangers on were soon fallers down.

Listening to the sounds of their screams dying away, Boner Beagle smiled, letting the sound record into his audio library. Nothing gets a guy off like cold blooded murder.

"So long toots," He said finally, turning around, "And thanks for the memories."

Then there were the sounds of jet engines behind him. "You're welcome, slime ball!" said a girl's voice behind him. He turned slowly, coming face-to-face with the face of a giant duck, draped in purple and flying. On top of the gigantic beak, Darkwing and the former prisoner were there, Darkwing surefooted and strong, with cape flapping in the breeze. Her arms were pulling her bow and arrow taught, right towards him.

"YIPE!" he yelled, before he turned and went back into the building before the arrow could get him. Instead, it bounced off the bulletproof glass precisely where his sweating face stared up at the jet.

Darkwing nodded, and stomped on the Jet, "Take us home, Huey."

The canopy opened, and the strange man was helped inside by the terror that flaps in the night. With all passengers' seatbelts fastened and ready to go, Huey gunned the instruments, intending to be back on the Sea Duck within the hour.

***

"Here he is," said Darkwing, "Take good care of him." She then turned back towards the Thunderquack and walked away.

"Wait!" Louie tried yelling from his position sitting on the edge of the door frame leading into the Sea Duck's passenger cabin, only getting a little bit of the volume he intended, "You're not staying?"

"You guys'll be all right without me," she said, looking towards the frail man sitting down, being tended to by Webby, "Don't you worry about that."

"But..."

"Are you arguing with me just to get me to kiss you again?" she said with a smirk, "Because that was a one-time thing. I like you boys and all, but I got my own shit to do. Gizmoduck's little police state in Saint Canard was getting out of hand when you guys called."

"G-gizmoduck?" asked the man.

"And that's my cue," said Darkwing, "I already figured this part out, so have fun you guys." And with that, she walked on towards the Thundequack, activating and opening it up by remote control. It lifted into the air on powerful jets before it rocketed off into the sky back towards America.

They watched her go, before Webby gave the man a glass of water. Dewey stood over him, "What did she mean? You said 'gizmoduck.' Do you know Gizmoduck?"

"First things first," said Huey, "Introductions."

Each of the ducks and parrots were in their turn introduced to their new companion, who merely quaffed food and water as fast as Webby could bring it.

"It's... been so long since I've seen you boys..."

"What?" asked Louie, "You seem to know everybody."

"You don't recognize me?"

Huey and Louie were clueless, and Webby shrugged her shoulders. It was Dewey, however, that had his memory stroked. It was a memory of something from long ago, of someone they used to know. Memories that had to do with money.

Dewey suddenly bent down and picked up a small handful of dirt.

"Count the grains."

"Seven thousand, eight hundred forty nine."

Everyone else blinked, clearly impressed at such a talent as counting the individual specks in a handful of dirt.

"You're the bean counter," Dewey said, clapping the dirt off of his hands, "Uncle Scrooge's accountant. Fenton Crackshell."

Fenton Crackshell finally allowed himself a weak smile. "I see a lot has happened to you boys since I saw you last. Same here."

Webby's face brightened, "My god! Mr. Crackshell. I didn't even recognize you." She placed a hand on his thin shoulder. "What happened?"

"I got too close to Farid Kagan is what happened. I found a book-keeping mistake, and he almost killed me for it."

"Almost?" asked Dewey, "Why didn't he kill you? It seems that would..."

"I think it's because..." He paused and breathed a sigh, "...Because I was Gizmoduck until a few years ago."

All three boys threw their hands in the air, all yelling at once, "Fuck! YOU were Gizmoduck!?"

"I could have sworn it was Launchpad!" yelled Huey.

"I always kind of thought it might be Uncle Donald," said Louie.

"It was obviously Duckworth," said Dewey.

"That makes no sense, Dewey," said Louie, "Duckworth wasn't even a duck. And he was too tall in any case."

"So? It was a super-futuristic mechanical suit, It could do whatever the hell it wanted."

Webby cleared her throat, "Guys?"

All three caught themselves in mid-argument, and slumped.

"But wait," said Louie, "If you're Gizmoduck, then who's that guy running around Saint Canard?"

Fenton took a slow sip of water before he continued, "He came upon me one day after my Ma passed on, rest her soul. I was a little unhinged at that point. I was getting past my prime, and my Gizmoduck days were soon over. I wasn't looking where I was when I was changing, and he saw me." He rolled his eyes, looking a little annoyed towards Huey, "He seemed to be disappointed about me not turning out to be Launchpad McQuack as well."

"Well, he was the best guess we all had to go on."

"I tried to get away from him, tried to hide my face, but it was too late. He was a teenager, be about you fellas ages now, and wore a coonskin cap."

"He was a Junior Woodchuck?" asked Louie.

"Yessir. Not a particularly good one, but good enough. He followed me to a crime in progress, and... well..." He took another sip of water, guilt beginning to well up inside, "He was shot.

"I rushed him back to my hideout. I'd dug a cave out from underneath the trailer park, and hidden away there between my life as Fenton Crackshell and my life as Gizmoduck. I operated on him. He lived.

"He tells me I saved his life, but it was me who got him into that in the first place. He idolized me even more after that. When it came time for me to retire, he took up the suit and the name, almost without my permission. Almost."

"But who is he?" asked Huey, "If he was a Junior Woodchuck in our year we should know him."

"You're right. I don't know if this was his real name or if it was just what he liked to be called, but he went by 'Doofus.'"

Like a calm before the storm, all four ducks stared at Fenton for a moment. Suddenly, each Duck had their own way of coping with the bombshell. Huey Laughed merrily; Louie merely looked confused, or as confused as he could while still wrapped up; Dewey looked a bit angry at the betrayal of one of their childhood friends; Webby began to blush. All four of them, at the same time, said the same thing at precisely the same instant:

"What?"


	16. Episode 16

Episode 16:

The chair he had finally crashed in the night before just as the dawn began to peek over the horizon seemed much more comfortable than it actually was as Doofus, the bits of his armor lying around him, began to wake. The rolling chair in the small room in front of a desk full of model planes and boats creaked as his bulk turned, his back beginning to protest the treatment.

Suddenly, the alarm built into the headpiece of his armor, laying out on the unused bed, fired off its horrible noise. Doofus, used to his rigid schedule, nearly immediately stood, trying to trick himself into believing he was wide awake. He leaned over his desk and looked out of the window of the tiny apartment.

The Duckburg skyline, or at least the couple of inches of it that he could see over the brick wall built facing his window, answered him back, still sleeping in the dusty dawn air. As many times as he went over to clean up Saint Canard and the outlying cities, Gizmoduck would always have a soft spot for Duckburg before the nine-to-five crowd appeared to clog its streets.

A hollow ringing noise interrupted his viewing, and he dug through the large pile of armor for the forearm piece, which was vibrating and making the pervasive noise. With a clumsy grace unused to the natural strength of his body, he manipulated the fingers of the armored hand into a 'phone' position and pulled an antennae from the thumb, before placing it to his ear and putting on his "hero" voice.

"Yes?"

"There is an altercation downtown, please quell it."

"Mr. Crackshell?" he said, his voice slipping, "Wait, what...?"

But it was too late, his mentor, Fenton Crackshell, had hung up. Doofus sighed. He was bound to following him, just for the debt of saving his life all those years ago, but lately... Something must have happened within the past few years.

No matter however, Doofus' petty quibbles were not needed anymore. Gizmoduck had to be in charge now. He stood in the center of the room, making sure none of his furniture was in the way of the inert armor.

"Blathering Blatherskite!"

***

In the aftermath of the siege on Duckburg, the town had bounced back admirably, even as the surrounding towns and cities locked down their borders and tightened their laws to prevent the same thing from happening to them, Duckburg flourished, used to and nostalgic for such disaster as part and parcel for living in the shadow of a giant cube of money in the center of town for near its entire history.

Nearby, Saint Canard had not been so lucky. Alarmists and opportunists had pounced upon the disaster of its sister city, and used it as a springboard for political and ideological gain. One of the largest proponents of the stricter laws was the hero residing in Duckburg, Gizmoduck, who became attached to a bit of folk knowledge that a hero associating with the hated Dewey Duck, A relatively new cape named "The Green Phantom" had been the orchestrating force behind the siege on Dewey's orders. Gizmo had never even hinted at this little fun fact, but nevertheless, is was often attributed to him.

As Saint Canard locked down further and further, and the heroes within were treated with more and more contempt and suspicion, the people and politicians had turned to Farid Kagan's private bodyguard (although how much sense did it make for a hero living in Calisota to be the bodyguard for a man living in Bombay, India?) as the last trustworthy man in the cape and mask crowd. He was asked to head up several groups, charities, and rallies meant to pass a bit of legislation limiting the freedoms of the vigilante set. "Too long," they would say, "Have we let just anyone take up a mantle for our protection when we should have been more discerning. This disaster in Duckburg is a object lesson in this fact." In a whirlwind political, the bill was passed in the state congress, and just like that unlicensed vigilantism was prohibited within the state of Calisota.

Of course, not all heroes went quietly into the night, never to be seen again. Some heroes were like the Green Phantom, or Darkwing, or Gizmoduck, mere mortals putting up a mask or a suit and vowing to protect the world any way they could, out of some feeling of need or guilt or duty. Some heroes, however had no choice.

When Saint Canard was essentially locked down to super-powered activity, several of the former good guys fled the town altogether, heading for other cities where their powers and freedoms would be respected. Duckburg was a frequent stop on this mass pilgrimage of the costumed vigilante, and in particular, the League of Mutants.

Sirens pierced the air as the spinning lights cast everything in tones of red and blue. Police cars and vans were set in a wagon train, surrounding four figures standing back-to-back-to-back. At the head of the group and ultimately in control of them was an aging rooster in a red and blue costume. He had a long, thin body that appeared to wobble with every slight move he made. Surrounding him were three others, mere babes when compared to their venerable leader. They were mutants, exposed to certain stimuli in the womb and born with incredible powers.

"Masked Vigilantes," said a voice in a megaphone coming from Captain O'Hara, at the head of his SWAT team, ready to jump in at a moment's notice, "You are under arrest for practicing vigilante justice within the state of Calisota. Please give yourselves up without a fight. Throw down your weapons and masks and come with us. If you do not fight, perhaps you may register yourselves with the city of Duckburg and..."

"Register! Pah!" Yelled one of the young mutants. He was a cat, barely a teenager, but with a fire in his eyes and a revolutionary spirit in his voice. His costume consisted of a blue jumpsuit and a pair of paw-print boxer shorts on his head, with two eye-holes cut out so he could see. "Reveal our real names to the public? Unmask and live in fear for our families and friends? Never!"

A girl-duck, just a little older than her underpantsed ally, stood by, trying to calm him down. She did not look kindly upon Captain O'Hara's team however. She wore a more subdued outfit, in earth tones, and with a billowing brown cape. Over her eyes she wore a domino mask turned up at either end in sharp points that extended out and up like a pair of cats eye glasses.

To Her side, trying his best to hide behind the girl-duck's cape, stood a terrier about the same age, but slightly shorter. His clothes were plain, a simple jacket, pants, and a bowler hat, but with a running watch built into the hat.

The Rooster at the lead held up his arm, "Be still, Wedge."

"Rubber chicken," said the duck, "We're trapped. This many people... and they're police, we can't hurt police, can we?"

"If they stand in our way, I can give it a shot," said the one called 'Wedge.'

The terrier and duck looked towards their leader for advice, as Wedge stood ready to attack at a moment's notice like a loaded gun.

The rooster crossed his pliable arms for a moment, before he began to speak, "Wedge may be right..."

The dog spoke up, "But RC...!"

"You have thirty seconds to comply!" called O'Hara.

Each of the young mutants in turn looked towards their mentor and leader, the Rubber Chicken, victim of his father's accidental dip in a molten rubber bath just before his conception. After a moment, as O'Hara counted down the seconds on his watch, the rooster let his hardened gaze rise up.

"Let them come."

"Attack!" Yelled Captain O'Hara, signaling the vans to open up, spilling forth the armored civilian army at his command. Each man was dressed in Kevlar and visored helmet, wielding a police baton and Plexiglas shield.

"Dusty! Now!" Yelled the Rubber Chicken.

Jumping at the call to action, the duck hopped forward, breathing in deep. Her chest expanded greatly to accommodate all of the excess air she took in, until her rib cage was grown impossibly large. As the approaching wall of men approached the duck, holding her breath, on all sides, she waved her arms to her companions, giving the signal. The three of them threw themselves to the ground quickly, and the duck let her breath go.

It wasn't air anymore, but could be described more like the dust or sand that is kicked up as a car drives by on a dry day, or what is sent towards your eyes as the bully kicks his sand castle in your direction. The dusty air was expelled from her lungs, seemingly secreted from her own body, and the wind, now with a mind of its own, began to home in on individual men in the lineup.

Between gaps in visors and helmets the individual grains of dust flew, unerringly finding sensitive eyes to irritate. The uncanny power to breathe out eye-homing sand was the amazing forte of the Dusty Duck, the windy wonder, whose fate was decided when her mother, a chemist at a cat litter factory, caught the experimental grits in her eyes while pregnant with her daughter. Under her powers, most of the encroaching men paused, grunting, trying to blink away the irritation of sand in their eyes, causing the ever encroaching circle of humanity to stall for just a moment.

A moment was all that was needed. The Wedge was off like a shot. The cat's tail gave a whip crack as he jumped towards the wall of armored bodies, still rubbing and blinking back their sandy eyes. He pointed his arms towards them, and as if in a wave, each man gave a yelp as there came a tightness in his drawers.

The Wedge could have been a normal boy had it not been for his father, an inspector at an underwear factory which began to use a new type of stitching process without telling the workers. Finding himself suddenly sewn permanently into a pair of briefs, the inspector soon after conceived a son, who had the amazing power of telekinesis over underwear, which he used to violently fight crime after his parents were murdered before his eyes by a crook in an alley.

The men screamed as their nether regions were assaulted by the ever tightening shorts they wore, the thick Kevlar trousers and body armor useless to protect them from their own clothes. Several of the weaker men fell to the ground, already drained from the assault upon their most sensitive parts. However, many still came, the few commandos among them holding the line as their downed allies writhed in pain.

Suddenly, long arms shot out from the center of the circle. The Rubber Chicken's stretch, the former really really really long arm of the law, extended out to wrap around the group, tangling them up in a net of rubber limbs.

As the Rubber Chicken stood his ground, cleaning up the men Dusty Duck and The Wedge could not deal with, he turned to the last of the group, the terrier, who was looking a little sheepish as he held the clock-themed bowler in his head.

"What time is it?" asked the Rubber Chicken.

"Nine-forty-five AM and five seconds Duckburg Standard Time... Now. We've been running for ten hours. The nice policeman actually gave us forty-three seconds before he attacked. It took you fellas eighteen seconds to fight off the SWAT team. It is a Tuesday..."

"Thank you, Watchdog."

YES! Watchdog, son of a clockmaker who was exposed to a strange radioactive quartz. He now has the unbeatable ability to know the exact time wherever he is, whenever he is. Don't knock it too hard. We can't all have good superpowers.

"We're winning, fellas!" yelled Dusty as she prepared to breath in again, "Keep it up!"

"If we can just make it out of the city limits," said Rubber Chicken.

"NO! We stay and fight the bastards," screamed The Wedge as he raised his arms, pulling a pair of briefs through their wearer's colon, "Don't you understand? If we run now we'll be running forever."

"Even so..."

"There is no more 'Even so,' Chicken! This is it. We go down fighting."

And there was nothing more that need be said. The unending stream of riot police swarmed in, only to be taken out by the teamwork of the four mutants. However, eventually, painfully, inevitably, the heroes were worn down to the nub as the last wave approached, climbing on the backs of their comrades.

"They've taken off their underwear!" yelled The Wedge as he flailed ineffectively towards the approaching guard, "I can't effect them!"

"And they've started wearing goggles. I can't get anything in their eyes."

"And it is two minutes to ten-o'clock!"

"I hear you guys! Stand back!" Yelled the older man as he jumped up into the air on spring legs. He expanded his body suddenly, becoming a wide red sheet falling over the group of policemen, trapping them in himself. With a few well-controlled manipulations of his body, the entire group was crushed, not enough to kill, but hard enough to be knocked out and hurting for a while. The Rubber Chicken soon shrank back to his normal size.

"Did we win?"asked The Wedge, "Did we get them?"

There was a moment of silence as the four mutants were surrounded on all sides by the writhing or, in some cases, unmoving bodies of the Riot police, with Captain O'Hara standing by, megaphone in hand trying to blink dust out of his eyes. Dusty Duck gave a yell of triumph.

"We did it!"

"Not yet!" called the Rubber Chicken, pointing his hand up towards the sky, "We've got company!"

The hum of a single propeller gave the four a chill of dread. Gizmoduck!

"Stop! You four are under citizen's arrest for unregistered vigilantism and assaulting an officer... ALL of the officers."

"You'll never take us alive!" railed The Wedge against the metal duck, shining in the morning sunlight. He raised his hands up high, screaming as he took hold of the approaching hero's underwear with his mind. However, after a horrid second, there was a look of pain on his face as his arms began to wobble. "No... It can't be... My one weakness!" He fell back wards, holding his head in his hands, debilitated by the piercing feeling in his mind.

"I knew I picked a good day to wear my boxer-briefs," said Gizmoduck.

The Wedge was a puddle on the floor, "Are they boxers... or are they briefs... I... can't... I..."

A long arm, followed by a dusty wind flew up towards Gizmoduck. The wind outraced the stretching hand, only to beat helplessly against the Metal Duck's tight visor. The hand had more luck, wrapping around the hero's hanging wheel and pulling sharply, sending Gizmoduck down to the ground with a crash.

"Stand back Dusty. This is my fight," Said the Rubber Chicken, trembling a bit, but staying firm, having no room for his former cowardice on the battlefield while his students, the outcast dregs of a society that won't accept them, needed his guidance. If he loses here, and these poor kids have no guidance, he might as well just send the rage-fueled villains-in-training overseas to F.O.W.L right now and get it over with.

"Be... Be careful Rubber Chicken," Said Dusty, helping Watchdog drag the strained Wedge away from the fight.

Gizmoduck rose from the dust cloud that had been kicked up by the slam into the ground, and stood, still shining. The two heroes faced each other down, on one side the light of Duckburg; The unbreakable paragon of order and justice; Gizmoduck. On the other side, a scrappy c-lister with kids in tow who was kicked out of Saint Canard by a law that repressed his kind, mutant kind. At ideological loggerheads, these two heroes drew their lines in the sand and prepared themselves.

They screamed as they ran towards each other. The wildly, artlessly flailing limbs of the Rubber Chicken beating and grappling the robot duck to the ground, using his pliability and invulnerability to make up for what he lacked in sheer strength. However, his lack of mastery over his powers proved to be his downfall. Using his gift of speed, not strength, Gizmoduck was able to duck around the flailing arms and legs, going through them, leading them in knots and loops that would take a moment to untangle. After a few moments, he had succeeded in creating a jumble out of the Chicken, and while he tried to recover, fired a net out of his chest coated with an adhesive substance. The gooey netting stuck fast to the mutant, rendering him immobile.

As their master struggled to untangle himself while also stuck to a net, Dusty Duck had the foresight to begin the retreat. Wordlessly, she indicated for Watchdog to run, and he soon disappeared down an alley, ripping off his mask and hat to take refuge in his secret identity. Dusty took the still weakened Wedge by the shoulder, trying to help him limp away as their master kept Gizmo busy. However, having dispatched the Rubber Chicken, Gizmoduck was able to move on, moving towards the two fleeing mutants quickly.

"Come on Wedge. Get up. You've got to move!" she grunted, bearing the weight of her ally with her whole body, "Go!"

But it was no use, his mind had been blown by the presence of Boxer-briefs and would not be back in shape until he had time to recover. She looked back, seeing the unicycled hero approaching rapidly. She screamed incoherent curses at her ally to move, but soon collapsed under his dead weight.

Rolling out from under The Wedge, Dusty Duck turned her head and saw Gizmoduck standing over her, before he placed a pair of heavy handcuffs on the two of them, connecting them to each other.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you do not have an attorney, one will be provided to you by the state of Calisota."

"P-please..."

"Come with me, please."

"Step away from the girl, Gizmo!" yelled a voice coming from behind.

Gizmoduck turned quickly, recognizing the voice. He fired a rocket out of a launcher that popped out of his back, which screamed towards its target, a certain flash of a green costume. The rocket pierced through the fabric, burning a hole clean through. Too late, he realized that what he thought was the Green Phantom was merely a sheet in the hero's chosen color that was billowing through the air.

A heavy impact on his back, and suddenly, Huey Duck was clinging to him, tearing at his exposed beak and neck with his hands. As he raised his arms to try to pry the red-clad duck off of him, he heard a loud gunshot, followed by a pop, and his tire was flat.

"Now, Louie!" yelled the voice of his quarry, before he noticed that he was up on the second floor of a building. He looked around for the green-clad hero, but was too late. Huey jumped from the back of the Duck of Steel, just before a rope lasso closed around his exposed neck. With a deft tug, Gizmoduck was on his back, unable to get the traction required to stand on his flat tire, and with his windpipe only partially open.

He saw Louie hobble out of an ally, fully costumed but for the lack of his destroyed mask. In places, the form-hugging costumed was lumpy from the bandages.

"Did we get him?"

"Don't relax yet," said Huey, his voice a smile, "Gyro Gearloose invented that thing. It could do anything."

"You two!" yelled Louie as he approached the two mutants. He knelt painfully as he pulled a simple hairpin from his utility belt, forgoing the $700 lock picking system that he never took out of the little box, and undid their shackles. "Run, and don't stop until you hit the state line. We'll send Rubber Chicken after you."

"Who are you?" asked Dusty.

"No time. Just go!" And with that, Dusty was able to force her ally up, having had some time to recover from the Boxer-brief rampage, and the two of them hobbled away from the scene of reverse police brutality.

"So... You've got me on my back now, villains?" Said Gizmoduck, ripping the rope around his neck apart, allowing him to speak, "I never thought you would have the nerve to come back to Duckburg, Dewey Duck. Captain O'Hara!" he yelled, "Place these men under arrest!"

But no voice answered him. The megaphone lay abandoned. Captain O'Hara had wisely gone for backup.

"We're gonna make this quick, Gizmo..." said Dewey.

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" He then pressed a button on his chest. Instantly, his tire began to spin. The old, dead pieces flew off in all directions and a new one seemed to grow in its place. The three boys drew back as Gizmoduck righted himself, reaching for one of his gizmos.

"Manual Override, User: Crackshell: Codeword: Blatherskite! Armor Off!" yelled a voice. Instantly, the armor began to fall away from Gizmoduck, from the tire, right up to the chest, to the arms and helmet. Eventually, there he stood, looking stunned squinting from the sudden blindness caused by the loss of the vision-correcting helmet.

"Wh-what?" He said, as he looked around, the world a blur, he reached for his glasses, but found his arms caught in a crushing grip.

"It really is Doofus!" said Huey as he held the large blue-sweatered man by the arms, using the ample strength hidden in his smaller frame to subdue the physically weaker Doofus.

"You... But... How? How do you?"

"I'm sorry Doofus," said a voice, THE voice, "It's over."

"M-Mr. Crackshell?" He wanted so to put on his glasses.

"Yes, Doofus. It's me."

"But... Mr. Crackshell, I did everything you wanted me to do. Why are you...? Why are you working with these terrorists?"

"You're confused, Doofus. I've been away for a long time. Give him his glasses, Dewey."

Dewey bent down and retrieved the specs from Doofus' front pocket, and suddenly, Doofus could see clearly. He saw, standing before him, Fenton Crackshell, wearing only a simple white shirt, standing on both of his feet.

"You... you're walking..."

"Shouldn't I be?"

"Fenton... Mr. Crackshell was in an accident. He has to sit in a chair..."

"I'm right here, Doofus. Who are you...?"

"You can't be Mr. Crackshell! He would never associate with... with Terrorists! I've done everything he's told me to do. All the... All the horrible... hunting down all of those rogue heroes." He began to struggle against Huey, pure righteous fury giving his arms newfound strength. "Let go of me! Let go!"

Dewey and Louie ran in to grab hold, but Fenton saw just in time, the glint in Doofus's eye. He whipped his head around, throwing his glasses off of his face.

"Boys! Get away from him!"

Huey let go just in time, and Dewey and Louie were able to back away just as Doofus called out, "Blathering Blatherskite." The reactivated armor flew Towards Doofus, creating a small tornado, before there stood Gizmoduck. The Duck of steel looked as if he might stand and fight, but soon turned on his wheel and started away, rolling over the prone bodies of the SWAT team.

"He's getting away!" cried Dewey.

"I know exactly where he's going. We have time for one more thing," said Fenton, kneeling beside the bound Rubber Chicken, pulling out a Swiss army knife, "Sorry about that, Chicken. I Hope my student didn't hurt yours too bad."

The Chicken sighed as he was eventually freed from the gooey and gradually hardening threads of the net, "Don't worry, I'm used to things like this by now."

***

Down the elevator under 'Ma's' trailer, past the trophy room and into the main hall, Gizmoduck rolled, before saying the codeword and tearing his armor away from himself.

"Mr. Crackshell!"

"What have I told you...?"

"It's important! There's... there..." But the seed of doubt had entered Doofus's mind. What if... No! impossible. It can't be. "There's another Fenton Crackshell. An imposter!"

Fenton, sitting in his wheelchair before his large computer array, turned slowly towards Doofus. "And did you take care of him?"

"I... It... I couldn't. They... He was with Dewey Duck and his brothers. I had to get away."

"You have the suit, and you couldn't hold off the three Duck brothers?"

"They... I'm sorry... but..."

"You useless, brain dead child. I should kick you out on the street right now. After everything I've done for you!"

"No! Mr. Crackshell, please! Give me another chance!"

"No more chances, Doof..."

"Don't listen to her Doofus!"

"WHAT?" cried the wheelchair ridden Fenton, his head perking up towards the entrance through the trophy room, where the unkempt-looking Fenton stood, flanked by the three Duck brothers. "Doofus! Suit up and get them!"

"B-but... But..." He was too gone. Doofus, seeing two Fenton's side by side, couldn't take the pressure and simply shut down.

"Useless!" Shouted Wheelchair Fenton, reaching down into the cushion, pulling out an automatic pistol and pointing it towards Doofus. He pulled the trigger and with a bang, Doofus fell to the ground in a heap.

"Doofus!" cried Fenton and the Duck brothers, stepping towards the bleeding out former Junior Woodchuck. The click of the gun stopped them.

"Not another sssssstep," Said the voice of the fake Fenton, decidedly more reptilian and feminine than before, "Or you'll join him."

"I thought there was something phony about what the boys told me about Doofus. That sweet kid could never think of doing anything like what he did."

"Very good, Fenton Cracksssssshell. But how do you intend to ssssstop me?" He stood, lifting himself out of the chair effortlessly, letting the long, reptilian tail unfurl behind him.

"Wha?" said Louie, as the false Fenton seemed to melt away, being replaced by another Duck entirely, one that was older, and with decidedly reptilian features.

"Who are you?" asked Huey.

"Camille Chameleon," answered Fenton, his arms crossed, "An enemy of Darkwing's from way back. I see you've recovered from your stay in Bedlam."

"Funny." She began to touch herself, "Oh! It feels ssssssso good to be back in my own body, with my own voicssssse. Keeping up your form to sssssso long wasss difficult even with your genetic material helping me along."

"So that's why you needed me alive," said Fenton, "You needed my blood so you could act like me, and control poor Doofus."

"Farid Kagan paid very well for this gig, and hell if you're going to stop me."

She began to pull the trigger, but a small sling had flown from Louie's hands, knocking the bullet off course and the gun out of her hands.

"What!?"

"Give up?"

She looked stunned, for a moment, before smiling, "Of course not, Fenton. I can defeat you with a taste of your own medicine," She then began to yell, "Blathering Bl-"

"Blatherskite!" cried Fenton before she could finish. The whirlwind surrounded him for a moment, before Gizmoduck the first was suddenly there, rolling quickly towards Camille. Not even bothering with a gizmo, Gizmoduck simply punched her in the chest, sending her flying backwards into her own computer console. The three boys looked on in morbid fascination as the super villain screamed, sparks arcing around her body as she was fried by the electrical current running through the powerful computer causing her shape-changing to go wild. A Large, burly man, a stool, a little girl, Darkwing Duck the first, Fenton Crackshell, Huey, Doofus, Farid Kagan. Soon, she was still, reverting back to her original form.

The boys were silent for a while, before Gizmoduck wordlessly picked up Doofus, looking at the misguided man.

"He's still breathing. The bullet went straight through." He smiled, trying to joke away the guilt, "It's a good thing she wasn't me. I'm a much better shot."

***

"He's waking up!" cried a girl's voice. A very familiar voice.

"W-webby?"

"Yes, Doofus, it's me."

Doofus was lying, stretched out in the back of an airplane, the boy's plane, the Sea Duck. He looked around, seeing everyone around him, including...

"Mr. Crackshell, what happened?"

"We were being used, Doofus," he said, sitting, holding his young protégé's hand as he looked up at all the concerned faces weakly.

"Oh. Oh, Mr. Crackshell! I've done some terrible things for... for that fake! I'm a disgrace! I don't deserve the title of Gizmoduck! I... I..."

"Shhh. My boy. You don't have to feel guilty. It wasn't your fault."

"But I..."

"Be quiet. Sleep," insisted Webby. "We'll talk more after you rest." She waved off all of the concerned faces, leaving only Webby in his vision.

"Webby. It's been years since we..."

"...yes, I know, Doofus." She wet a cold compress and applied it to his head. As she did this, he reached up with his hand, placing it over hers.

This was all Dewey could stand to watch before he drowned out the fresh memory with business, "Fenton. Now that we've cleaned up your loose end, I'd like us to get down to business. Are you game?"

"Sure thing my boy," he said, letting himself be lead towards the binder. Letting his numerical juices flow after years of atrophy, Fenton rubbed his hands together and took up the Binder and a pencil, going page by page, adding, subtracting, winding his way through the mathematical maze set up by Farid Kagan's best men. "This won't take any time at all."

"Where to, Dewey?" asked Huey.

Dewey nodded, his resolve steeling his face even as the memory of Doofus stealing a touch from Webby crowded in on his mind. "S.H.U.S.H central command. Saint Canard."

Louie smiled, his injuries, though still aching, allowing him to get around enough to be useful, "I can feel it, men! We're home free. This is it. We're finally going to stick it to that bastard!"

"I hope you're right," said Dewey, as the Sea Duck flew on towards Audubon Bay and Saint Canard.


	17. Episode 17

Episode 17:

Within a shaft of light, surrounded by darkness, a simple oak desk sat. Behind the chair sat a simple, solid-looking wooden chair stained to match the exact shade of the plain, unpretentious desk. Atop the desk was a poker hand of files arranged in a rainbow pattern, color-coded with small stickers in the corner for quicker indexing; Blue, Red, Green, Pink, White, Purple.

With loud sound, like the turning of a circuit breaker switch, another shaft of light thrust through the darkness of the hall, revealing a checkerboard pattern of tile which held, like a King standing high on white, Dewey Duck, head held proudly erect. Soon more loud light switches sounded and more shafts opened; Louie standing on a Black space in full costume, using what appeared to be some kind of face paint to dye the feathers of his face in a domino mask pattern to replace his destroyed mask, utility belt confiscated; Huey standing on a white space, the deadly weapons known as his hands bound up with thick manacles; Webby standing slightly behind Dewey's space, hugging the binder to herself, looking down towards the floor and trembling lightly; Fenton Crackshell, standing next to Webby, still looking gaunt and unfed, but with trimmed whiskers and cleaned appearance; And, of course, Darkwing Duck, unbound and allowed to retain her weapons as an honor-bound ally of S.H.U.S.H, their representation

As the five figures stood, awaiting their judge, they said nothing, making not a sound as they lingered. Soon, footsteps echoing off of the unseen breadth of the hall began to make themselves known, hard-soled shoes on tile getting closer to the chair behind the desk. Soon, a body appeared, in a simple grey business suit. A brown furred hand protruded from beyond bleached white shirt cuffs to grab and pull the chair out from under the Oak. Soon, the figure was sitting, a thick brown bear, in the process of trading the muscles of his youth for a proud plumpness in the beginning of his twilight years.

"Darkwing Duck," he said, his voice heavily accented in, to most everyone's surprise, a Russian dialect, "Dewey Duck and allies. I am Vladimir Goudenov Grizzlikof, director of S.H.U.S.H. I am here because an ally of mine... or at least one that takes the name of an ally of mine... has asked me to reconsider the case against you."

"Thank you Director Grizzlikof," said Darkwing, more businesslike than usual, "I appreciate it."

"It helps that we are getting rather suspicious of McDuck Enterprises under Farid Kagan, or at least some of the circumstances surrounding his rise to power." He turned his head towards Dewey. "Dewey Duck," he said, opening up the blue folder, "The charges made against you by this organization are dire. If you can refute them, then you may begin. What have you to show me?"

Dewey nodded slowly. He held out his hand, allowing Webby to place the binder in it. He slowly walked, binder in hand, towards the desk. As he did, the shaft of light followed him. He placed the book on the Oak desk and began to speak, "We have attained the records of Farid Kagan's business practices for two years, including the time during the siege and a small part of his time as CEO."

"We have combed the records ourselves."

"Yes, but we went over them with a fine-tooth comb. You should meet him. Fenton?"

Fenton Crackshell stepped forward, "Hiya."

Grizzlikof picked up the white-accented folder slowly, and began to leaf through it, "Fenton Crackshell, yes? Former accountant with Scrooge McDuck. Have you found something we have missed?"

"You bet!" He walked forward, opening the binder on Grizzlikof's desk, and pulling from the back a sheet of notes he had taken on a pad of yellow paper, "Here's my take on things, Grizz. Those books were put together in a way that would have had your best men scratching their heads for years."

"And you have... deciphered them?"

"Well sure. Mr. McDuck would only hire the best!"

As Crackshell said this, everyone who knew McDuck had to restrain themselves of saying that the actual fact of the matter was that Fenton was hired because he worked for peanuts.

Grizzlikof took the page of notes, an interlocking page of numerical wizardry, totally indecipherable to a pedestrian, but for the accusation made at the bottom of a hole worth six hundred thousand dollars and more.

"Six hundred... That is a large hole."

Dewey scowled, "You're telling me."

"But what does this prove? Many businesses, though I am loath to admit it, launder and cheat on these matters. This hardly proves your innocence."

"Excuse me, Director," said Louie, "But I think this is where I come in."

Grizzlikof looked towards the hero, before taking up the green folder, "A mister Green Phantom. We are aware of your secret identity, although if you so wish we shall keep it hidden during these proceedings."

Louie rolled his eyes, "Might as well just say it. It's not like I'm fooling anybody."

"Very well, Mr. Duck. What have you found?"

"This!" he then stormed the desk and slapped down a sheet of ripped paper. On one side there was a list of names; names of known criminals and super villains; and on the other a list of figures, with lines drawn to indicate where the money was flowing to and from. The chart was topped by a large question mark where all of the arrows came from and where they also ended up.

"Explain."

"For the two years before the siege Saint Canard's underworld has been funded by money coming from a mysterious source. This money funded everything. Larceny, Murder, Cape and mask activity, drugs. Just about everything bad happening in Saint Canard can be traced back somehow to this pile of free-floating cash. Darkwing and I were able to track the source of the money to McDuck Enterprises, and eventually, the subsidiary Khan Industries."

"And the proof?"

"In the pudding," he pointed towards the bottom, where the figure matched the figure Fenton had written on his yellow pad, "Six hundred thou, running from the top, all the way to the bottom, and back, pouring money right back into the private coffers of Farid Kagan."

"And what does this have to do with the Siege on Duckburg. That is the main meat of the accusation posited against your brother, Mr. Duck."

"Well, just take a look," He pointed once again towards the arrow of money, following down its path through the underworld, "It goes down, gaining interest as it passes through the various industries. Gaining A couple thousand back investing in pimps, Paying thugs and Mob bosses to collect protection money from various small neighborhood, another hundred thousand buying cocaine from Colombia and sending it out all over the world..."

"...hidden in melons..." added Huey.

"Right! It's a machine for making money, like clockwork. If it wasn't rotten to the core Uncle Scrooge would be proud."

"And your point?"

"Farid Kagan never saw that much profit from this venture, Mr. Grizzlikof. He took home a tidy sum to be sure, but look, the last of it was skimmed off and placed here," Louie pointed to one more arrow, leading down to the last name at the bottom of the page, 'Beagle Boys Inc.' "This money directly paid the Beagle Boys for the raid on Duckburg!"

"Ah." Said Grizzlikof, "I thank you for this information, Mr. Duck, but I once again fail to see your point." He placed the two sheets back on the desk. "If I remember correctly, Dewey Duck was CEO of the company while this was going on."

"Well... er..."

Dewey rolled his eyes.

"Wait." Said a voice from behind Dewey, "I can explain."

Dewey looked behind him, "Webby?"

"Webigail Vanderquack. Daughter of a McDuck-employed governess, and current personal assistant to Dewey Duck. What is it?"

"I..." she gulped. "I'm an eye witness to Dewey Duck's business dealings."

"A suspect witness to be sure, considering the... personal nature of your relationship with the Duck family. I seem to have a record here..." He reached for the pink file, and pulled out a sheet. "That you were like a surrogate niece to the late Mr. McDuck."

"It's true," she said, "But still, I'd like to give what I've seen."

"Speak then. We shall determine its usefulness later."

She nodded her head and stepped forward, twining her hands together in front of herself. "Dewey was... Dewey was obsessed with making money."

"And that makes him innocent... how?"

"Because... because he was also obsessed with making money the way his Uncle made his money. He used to have a saying, about how he made his money by being... 'Tougher than the toughies, and Sharper than the Sharpies, and making it square.'" She raised her head up, looking Director Grizzlikof directly in the eyes, "I'm convinced Dewey would never use his uncle's money for anything dishonest like this, not when he had the claim on the goldmine to make money on, fair and square."

"A goldmine in this day and age does not make as much money as it would have in Scrooge McDuck's day."

"Even so, Dewey wanted to make his own fortune. He minimized using his Uncle's money so he could truly claim the gold as his own." She raised a single finger in the air as she made this next point, "More importantly, while he was working on the gold mine project, he became less involved in the company's affairs. He handed more and more responsibilities off to Mr. Kagan in Bombay."

"At the time I thought he was the only trustworthy man in the company. He and I seemed like we understood each other." Dewey crossed his arms. "Perhaps a little too well on his part."

"Can you corroborate this story somehow?" asked Grizzlikof.

"Well... er..."

Fenton spoke up, "Well now, I think I can!" He reopened the binder to a page of figures from a year and a half before the siege. "See here? Dewey Duck's signature is all over these records." He then turned a page, letting a few months pass. "And here you see money beginning to be funneled into the Goldmine project."

"Yes? And?"

"And here," he turned a couple more pages, "See? Farid Kagan begins to sign more and more of these records as he is given more truck in the company." He finally turned the page to the month before the siege. "Here we are! At this point, Kagan is running a good chunk of the business beyond his Bombay offices. More than enough to let something slip past Dewey."

The six who stood in the shafts of light looked up at Vladimir Grizzlikof. For his part, Grizzlikof seemed to look a bit more attentively at the binders and pages that had been set before him.

"It is very suspicious for Mr. Kagan. This is true. I thank you for this."

Smiles split the beaks of all those gathered. "Does this mean...?" Huey began.

"I'm afraid," answered Grizzlikof, before Huey could finish, "That no, it is not quite enough. It is certainly enough to cast suspicion on Farid Kagan, and is exactly the push we needed to open up an investigation. However," he picked up the blue folder and began to wave it, "It is not enough to entirely life suspicion from you, Mr. Dewey Duck."

"I... I understand."

"If you would please, I would like to keep these documents, and take Mr. Crackshell into protective custody, if you do not mind."

"As long as you feed me."

"As for you, Duck brothers, you are still internationally wanted criminals."

Huey and Louie began to tense up, sensing approaching bodies in the dark. However, the man approaching Huey unlocked his bonds, and the man approaching Louie threw the yellow utility belt in front of them. Their invisible presence was soon gone.

"However, in light of your help this day, you have a single hour to vacate these premises before my agents will take you in." He stared at the purple-clad hero, "Including you, Darkwing Duck. As an honorary field agent, you are on our side as long as you are on S.H.U.S.H property."

"Wha-? But..."

"Just go!" Said Dewey, before the entire group, minus Darkwing and Fenton, turned towards the exit and ran, followed the whole way by the shafts of light.

Louie turned and yelled back to Darkwing, smiling, "No hard feelings DW. We'll see you later."

"You know it, Gadgets. You better not get hurt again or I swear for every broken bone I'll give you two more!"

The group then disappeared into the hallway, a small victory achieved, but made hollow by the fact that they must keep running.

***

"Huey!" yelled the three girls, tending to Doofus's rapidly healing wound.

"What happened?" said Doofus, "Where's Mr. Crackshell."

"Hi Gals. Hi Doofus. No time," said Huey, before he ran into the cockpit, "Gotta hurry."

Webby waved off the girls and took her place by Doofus's side, to tend to the bullet hole. "I think we did well today," she said, "They're going to investigate Farid Kagan."

"But no luck on clearing our names," said Louie, wiping the improvised facemask off with a damp washcloth, leaving a black residue on the white fabric, "We're still on the run."

As if in answer, the engines buzzed to life, and the plane began its rise into the air.

"Where to now, Dewey?" asked Louie, "As if I don't know already."

"Chihuahua. We wait, and hopefully nothing else... happens. I've had about as many plot twists as I can handle here."

"I really doubt it," said Louie, "Think Chihuahua is safe?"

"No, but it's our best option at the moment. Panchito and José are our best bets as far as allies are concerned."

"Panchito and José aren't who I'm worried about," said Louie, his hand travelling up to touch his still aching ribs.

"You think that PK guy will still be around, huh?"

"If I had any eye-teeth after he knocked them all out I'd bet them on it." Louie sat slowly in a chair, "Who knows? Maybe now that me and his fists are more well-acquainted, we can skip the introductions."

Dewey walked over to sit by Louie. "I still have a question about that, if you please. If he beat you up so bad, why did you tell us to trust him?"

"It worked, didn't it? Fenton was right where he said he would be."

"That's not what I asked. Why did we trust him in the first place."

"I..." Louie looked out the window, "I can't say. Sorry."

"We're keeping things from each other. I thought we had enough of that after that roof in Mouseton... and that bottle of scotch..."

"Trying to guilt it out of me, eh?" Louie said with a smirk, "You weren't kidding when you said you don't spend money unless you plan on getting something back for it."

"It was a forty dollar bottle!"

"You've got one third of umpteen squintillion dollars. They named a mathematical concept after us and our predicament, did you know that?"

"What?"

"Yes, Fenton told me about it. A Dewey, a Huey, and a Louie are the names for each of the three thirds of an impossibly high number, collectively known as the 'Nephew Numerals.'"

"What's your point?"

"My point is that I have a little something neither you nor Uncle Scrooge ever had; Perspective. I can understand the fact that in the face of all of that money, forty bucks for a bottle of great scotch is a drop in the bucket."

"And are you trying to make me angry to duck the question of why we trusted this PK guy?"

"Pretty much."

He looked towards Louie's smug face with a fair bit on contempt, before he gave a great heaving sigh. "Fine. Don't tell me. I don't know if I can trust him, but I can certainly trust you to know what you're doing."

Louie simply smiled and leaned back, intending to sleep away the time between Saint Canard and the middle of nowhere, Mexico. It was less painful that way.


	18. Episode 18

Episode 18:

It was late in the day by the time the group had flown into Chihuahua, the sun had begun to dip low on the horizon over the bare Mexican landscape. The three girls looked excitedly out the windows, searching for any signs of their uncle, climbing over each other to look out over the sleepy ranch town that had already gone to ground for the night. Huey had to concentrate not to get too distracted by this display occurring on his co-pilot seat, and definitely had to stop thinking about the vague wish that he was indeed a co-pilot seat, so that he wouldn't smash the nose of the Sea Duck into the ground.

As the bird landed, Louie awoke from his sleep, feeling less than refreshed, the normal part and parcel cricks and aches of sleeping in an airplane seat overlaid over the not so typical aches associated with being savagely beaten within an inch of his life a while back.

"Where...?"

Dewey looked out the window, as a single horse backed rider that had come to meet them, "We're here, Louie. Wake up."

Without a word, Louie began to rise, working through his aching body as he stood up from the uncomfortable seat. He, too, looked out of the window. "Everyone else in town is asleep already, I gather. And it's not even dark out yet."

"Not all of us can survive on a couple hours of sleep a night, Louie," teased Dewey as he stood and walked towards the exit, opening it up and jumping down onto the dusty ground below.

Webby stood and began to help Louie to follow his brother.

"Skip it, Webby," he said, shrugging off her gentle hands, "Doofus needs more help than I do."

"Er, right," she said, as she walked over to the still prostrate Doofus.

Soon, the group had assembled outside of the plane, and were being lead by the single horseman, another of the Crow night watchmen that patrolled the ranch after dark. The girls chattered on in Portuguese, with Huey hovering over them catching every other word. Dewey strode a discreet distance away from Webby, who supported the weakened Doofus on her shoulder, who for his part carried a suitcase by his side filled with his armor, which Webby forbade him to use until he was better. Louie walked, or limped, a little behind the group, all of the sexual politics languishing through the Chihuahua cattle range making him roll his eyes. However, he couldn't help but think of Gosalyn. How old was she anyway? Could he be arrested for that?

On, through the edge of the village, and towards the tavern. Their Crow guide said nothing, preferring instead to simply hurry on before darkness fell completely over the town. For their part, the brothers and company were too exhausted by their flight to make too much conversation amongst themselves, and more than one of them planned to crash on the first bed in sight.

The crow dismounted from his horse and tied him up in front of the tavern, before he walked in through the front. The entire group moved after him, through the swinging doors of the tavern. Dewey, at the head of the group, noted that everyone in town, it seems, was gathered in the bar, sitting rail straight at tables and on the floor when they couldn't fit. Drinks sat untouched on tables and the bar, and the entire scene held an eerie silence that Dewey was all too familiar with.

"Wait!" He yelled, already backing away from the tableau, "It's a trick!"

But it was too late, all of the five ducks had found their way through the swinging doors, and found themselves helpless as each townsperson, as a man, tossed a wave of small, green balls towards the ducks and parrots, which flashed brightly as they struck the ground with a clear 'foof' noise. Instantly, Dewey felt his legs shake and his vision leave, as he felt his body and senses be stunned by the torrent of foof bombs. He tried to stay standing, but he was suddenly too weak. He fell, to the ground like a ragdoll, along with his brothers and allies, who fell about each other like so many sacks of potatoes.

"M-"Dewey tried to begin, "M-magic... ca..."

"I'm terribly sorry," said a voice, crackling and fragile, but with a familiar Italian lilt, "But I'm afraid this may be your final adventure, nephews. You've gotten between me and my plans for long enough."

As Dewey's vision began to return, he saw the outline of a black-clad figure, a hag of a duck, thin as death, with fright-white hair and more crags and lines than the face of a mountain. She stood among the now standing townspeople, holding a glowing wand in her right hand, and with the other caressing the chin of a man, Panchito.

"I shall not dally long, Duck. I have come for the dime."

"My... D..."

"Your dime?" She laughed, a wracking heave of a cackle, "Claiming the old man's dime as your own, eh?" She approached, slowly, using the curves she no longer had, "how funny of you. Shall I tell you what I will do with that dime?"

"I know what you... want..." Said Dewey, sheer gumption allowing him to recover from the foof before any of his companions, "...Midas... touch..."

She laughed again, casually dropping another foof bomb on the ground. Dewey was caught in the flash, and once again found himself stunned.

"THAT old spell? I gave up on that years ago. No! I have found a new use for the old man's dime." She twined her thin, boney fingers around the wand, a long, glowing green whip of a stick. "I have found in my studies the secret to eternal youth and beauty. The Elixir of Aphrodite." She turned away from Dewey and began to hobble about, reveling in her own genius. "Ever since I lost my beauty I have been travelling the world to find the components of this spell, including the first coin made by the richest duck in the world. I had thought that the magic in the coin would dissipate with his death as his wealth was distributed through the world, but... After it counteracted my beautiful Ideologue spell, I see that it is still potent after all these years." She rubbed her face. "Wealth is... hard. Cold. Beauty, now that is the greatest treasure of the universe. I did not know what power I had until it was gone... It is, ephemeral, temporary, and it is the greatest asset that I could ever choose to have. For my youth back, I would gladly sacrifice you, this town, those blasted idiotic Thembrians... the whole world!" With a smile, her still haunting eyes narrowed, "today I shall settle for you."

Supine and numb all over, Dewey was unable to move as Magica DeSpell walked up, her trembling, arthritic hands reaching towards his pocket where he kept both dimes.

"WAAAAK!" He suddenly yelled, forcing his dead arm to move to clumsily knock against her hand, an utterly weak attack, but enough to cause her to draw back.

"There is spirit in this one. Well. We shall have to fix this." She waved the acid green wand towards the Green parrot sitting at the bar, José, "You, Playboy. Get me Scrooge's dime."

"Yes, Comrade," said José, his trance smoothing out his accent. The parrot stood, limping forward without the help of his umbrella.

"José," Said Dewey, drained after his desperate attack against Magica's probing fingers, "Joe. Please..."

But José did not listen. He merely reached his hands into Dewey's pocket, and, as he was told, withdrew the dime. The heaving cackle began once again.

"And now it is mine! Slave! Bring it to me. Let me... hold it in my hands."

José turned blankly, holding the dime between his thumb and forefinger. He walked towards Magica, arm outstretched, and she held out her arms as if accepting a beloved child back home.

"N-no!"

"I win, Dewey Duck! I win!" She laughed as the dime hovered ever closer to her fingers.

"NooOOOOOOOOO!"

Suddenly, a crash! The window... No! The whole side wall of the tavern caved in violently, sending splinters and hypnotized victims to ground. A cloud of dust preceded the entry of a large brown object flying in, smashing though the old wood of the tavern's wall. Dewey blinked away the dust and residual foof, and could have sworn that he saw a struggling horse fly through the air away from the wall, to crash into the bar hard, sending strong spirits all over the ground. The horse, coming in contact with the ground, struggled and screamed on its broken body, before it slowed down and began to shrink in size, the chocolate tones darkening and turning black, and the two broken front legs becoming a pair of broken, busted wings. Soon, the horse had become a raven, who screamed and cried in pain, speaking words in Italian that none but the uncaring Magica could understand.

"What was that?" she demanded, trying to wave away the smoke, before she saw the silhouette. A duck. A billowing cape. Boots. A flash of yellow and black. She snatched the dime away from José quickly.

"Drop the dime, Magica!"

"Or what? Who are you, silly man? Who dares face Magica DeSpell, Sorceress?"

The dust cleared fully, showing the one-eyed mask, the costume, and the face of pure rage.

"They call me..." He said, eye wild, "...PK!"

"Rooster! Playboy! Get him you fools!" Magica Screeched as she ran upstairs to the upper level of the tavern.

"Yes, Comrade."

"Dewey!" PK yelled as Panchito began to draw his twin guns, and José took up an umbrella, which he brandished like a sword, "Your dime!"

"D...dime..."

"Throw me your dime!" Bang bang bang! PK jumped out of the way just as Panchito tried to fill his gut with hot lead, "Quickly!"

"But... I can't... It's mine..."

"Dewey! Right now!"

Something in the voice called Dewey back, to hot summer days playing in the backyard with his two brothers, to ice cream sodas, to Super Snooper comics, and misadventures ending in the dreaded switch. Unconsciously, his arm disconnected from the rest of his numb body, he reached in his pocket for the remaining, 1967-dated dime and ripped it from its housing on its string in his pocket. Before his natural money-grubbing tendencies could get the better of him, he threw it towards the fray before passing out altogether.

As the flying dime neared the two hypnotized caballeros, it began to vibrate. PK dived, reaching his arms out to grab it out of the air, and landed in a roll. With the dime in hand, he could feel the power fighting the communist magic that bewitched the parrot and rooster. Balling it into his fist, he gave two swings; baf, Pow; and Floored José and Panchito in two shots. When they opened their eyes, it was clear they were back to their normal emotional selves.

"What happen'?" said José.

"Where is the weetch!" cried Panchito, hopping up and pointing his guns towards the masked man, "Who are you? We do not take kindly to strangers here in Chihuahua!"

But José, still prostrate on the floor, looked up at PK with a kind of wide-eyed reverence, "Is... is it...?"

"No time," Said PK, "She's getting away. Come on!" He then disappeared up the stairs after tossing the dime back to the unconscious Dewey.

Panchito and José looked in each other's eyes for a moment, before smiling broadly. Panchito helped his friend to his feet, and, with an old spark of life rediscovered, charged up the stairs after PK.

***

The small hearth in the center of the tavern's guest room was lit, and Magica was sitting by it, desperately rummaging through her bag.

"Telepowder. Telepowder. Where is that... Ah!" She called in delight as she withdrew a small brown sack from her bag, full of a fine powder.

"Not so fast, Witch!"

Not even bothering to answer, She reached into her sleeves and tossed two foof bombs towards the three men who stood in her door frame. She covered her eyes and nose to protect herself from the bomb's paralyzing effects, before she peeked, seeing the cloud of smoke dissipate.

"What?" she screeched, as she saw the outline of the wide, black umbrella, acting as a shield for the three men.

Before she could react, Panchito moved first, popping over the rim of the umbrella and taking a well-aimed potshot at Magica. The bullet tore through her arm, causing her to drop nearly the entire brown bag into the shouldering hearth with a small pile of dust settling over the sides. The fire turned red, then orange, then green, before settling on blue, with the faint outline of a destination.

"Imbeciles! Do you have any idea how much that powder costs!" she yelled, ignoring her grotesquely limp arm. With her other, she pulled out another wand, a golden one, and aimed it at the floor. The ground where she fired the magic seemed to burst into flame, and from the fire grew a figure that glowed with a kind of infernal light. It turned towards Magica.

"Kill them," she said, simply, before jumping into the fire, just before, in a rainbow of color, she was gone.

The three looked at the figure as it continued to grow, until it seemed to take up the entire room. The three then looked to one another.

"I am the Alpha and the Omega! I am lord of all evil! The Underworld is my playground, and I have but to stretch my pinky and subjugate each of your so... what are you doing? Stop!"

In a whirl, the parrot and Rooster had hurled the masked hero towards the huge demon. The duck was a tornado of fists and kicks. The Demon found himself caught off guard, shielding his fiery eyes and face from the windmill of punches that came off of the wild duck, who made that horrible noise all throughout with his voice. Meanwhile, Panchito had opened fire, careful not to strike his ally clinging to the demon. José waved his arms and screamed encouragement at Panchito and PK, before poking the Demon in the stomach with the pointy end of his umbrella.

"Unholy shit! You guys are crazy!" said the demon, "Beelzebub out!"

In a flash of fire, the devil was gone, leaving only a scorched patch in the ground.

***

"Wake up!" said a voice, before Dewey's face was slapped.

"What happened?" said Dewey, groggily, before remembering, "The dime! Where's Magica?"

"Probably all the way back to Vesuvius by now."

"We... We've got to go, get back Uncle Scrooge's..." He began to lift himself up, but a hand was placed on his chest.

"Not so fast. We need to think this through."

Dewey's eyes had finally caught up with the rest of him. PK was sitting over him, looking gruff. Around him, Huey, Louie and the others were being helped up by Panchito's various relatives and relations. José was embracing his nieces, and they were reciprocating t gesture, all speaking at once. In front of Dewey's face, PK was waving the 1967 dime, which he snatched out of his fingers quickly.

"Thanks," He said curtly, "but we have no time for thinking. If we don't hurry, she's going to melt that dime down for that crazy potion of hers unless we can stop her."

"And how do you plan on getting to Italy within an hour?"

"I... she teleported, didn't she?"

PK nodded.

Dewey trembled lightly, before he let out a long, anguished wail, beginning with a wide 'a' noise, before transitioning with a diphthong into a teeth-clenching long 'e.' His throat clenched over the noise, creating a hard G which gargled in his throat, letting all the rage and frustration percolate to the top of his being.

When the outburst was over, Webby wandered over, "Dewey?"

"I lost it! Uncle Scrooge's dime. It was right here in my pocket, and... Oh! God! Why did I let it slip away?" He fell to his knees, with a groan. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! It's... it's gone, and it's all my fault!"

"No," said Webby, "Dewey, it wasn't anyone's fault."

"You don't understand! It was... The number one dime was... It was his legacy. The first thing he ever earned by his own sweat and labor, and I let it go. I couldn't protect it. I... Now... It's gone and I'll never see it again."

A ripe crack against his cheek took his mind off of his troubles for a moment. "Stop hitting me, PK!"

"That wasn't PK," said Webby, before she slapped him again, this time on the other cheek, "Pull yourself together!"

"But..."

Slap! "No buts Deuteronomy Ebenezer Duck, you listen to me. That dime was Uncle Scrooge's responsibility to protect. Not yours, not PK's, not anybody's but Uncle Scrooge's. It was his wish that you boys forgot all about that dime and went to make your own fortunes. You understand me?"

"But Webby..."

Slap! "Now we are going to sit down, calm down, and talk about what to do about Magica DeSpell using Scrooge's dime in a spell for immortality and eternal youth, you understand me? The dime is beside the point, the world is at stake here, and if you're too short-sighted by your little love-affair with your Uncle's ghost then I... I'm... I'm afraid I will have to give my two-week notice."

"What?"

"I cannot work under these conditions. You're small-minded, pay barely any attention to me, pay me barely anything, are frankly horrible to the people around you without realizing it, and you only ever care about one-upping Uncle Scrooge. Well Nuts to that, Dewey. You need to get your priorities straight here. Magica. Farid. There are people threatening the world, and all you can think about are your petty little problems that nobody asked you to care about.

Webby stood up, placing her hands on her hips and scowling, "Now I'm giving my ultimatum. Are you going to give up right now and sulk, or are you going to get your head out of your hind parts and find a way to beat Magica?"

Everyone in the room had frozen to behold this outburst, and as she finished, Webby was suddenly aware of it.

"...sir," she added quickly.

There was a small pause as Dewey sat. He was holding his own dime in his hand and trying to figure out what to stare at. He settled his gaze on the dime, on Webby, and on his silent brothers. He dropped his head down and began to cry. Once he was finished, he stood up and faced PK, wiping his tears from his eyes.

"We need to get to Mount Vesuvius as soon as possible. There might still be time."

PK reached into a pocket in his cape and withdrew a small, clear back filled with the fine telepowder Magica had used to escape, "She only left enough for one person."

***

Spiced smells of dark things wafted through the old shack on the face of Mount Vesuvius. Within, the glow of the pot, bubbling in the center of the room with no apparent means of heat, overpowered the senses with ghosts of light and sound. The ingredients went in, one-by-one, from the single, useful hand of the witch concocting the Elixir of Aphrodite.

She sat as if in a trance, her eyes wide open, but milky and unseeing. Her hand moved as if controlled by something outside of her body, and her throat made mumbled incantations as she places each component in the pot. Soon...

Her arm reached for the dime, sitting at the bottom of the stack, surrounded by perfumed rose petals, that wilted as her fingers closed around the shiny metal. With the prize held in her hands, she held her hand over the boiling pot, which spewed pink smoke like a chimney.

All at once, the fireplace at the end of the room roared, and the roar of flames transformed into a roar of voices. As if burning away in reverse, Dewey Duck appeared in the fireplace. He cocked Scrooge's Musket on his shoulder and fired a single musket ball with a scream of rage. The large projectile passed clean through Magica's heart, exploding out the other side in a spray of crimson. Dewey lowered the rifle as he eyed the magician.

The arm moved closer to the pot, undeterred by trivial ailments of the body. The dime fell into the pot.

Cruel laughter in the familiar sensual voice that seemed to run backwards and forwards at once echoed through the room. Before Dewey, above the living corpse of Magica DeSpell, there appeared an ethereal presence in the shape of the youthful temptress of Dewey's youth.

"It is no use. The elixir will soon be complete, and this body of mine will be remade to match my beautiful spirit," said the ghost, "And I will be more powerful than ever before. At my full strength I shall not kowtow to any man ."

"You're mad, Magica!"

"Mad, you say? To want to live forever is madness? To want power is madness? Then perhaps you too are mad, little boy."

"Shut up!" Dewey yelled, before he tried stepping towards the cauldron. However, he was knocked backwards off his feet by an unseeable force.

"You think I didn't plan for you to come here? I am more than protected from you, and your pitiful bullets will be of no matter when I am once again young and powerful." A cackle, strong and supple. "First I shall take care of those troublesome Thembrians... No! Them second, After I kill you and your little family right in front of you."

The ghost floated down to hover over her own body, letting her own hand swish over the cauldron, laughing merrily all the while, "Soon, Dewey, I will be myself. Young, supple, beautiful. You will have the pleasure to be the first to look upon the new queen of this world, and also be the first to be crushed beneath her heel!"

Her laugh started small, but grew in a horrific crescendo, letting out the mad evil she radiated in every cackle. At the apex of the mad laughter, the hands of the sorceress moved, one of them flopping about grotesquely, and dipped her hands in the pool. Instantly, her wrists hardened up, as the magic within the elixir youthened them. A deep draught of liquid was taken from the pot by the two hands, and forced down the Witch's unfeeling gullet.

"Yes. Yes! I can feel it happening," she said, the spirit form beginning to rub herself all over, down the front of the black dress the spirit wore out of some memory of human modesty, which was quickly flying out the window as the opposite hand travelled lower. "Yes. It is warm! Oh, Yes!"

Dewey felt his throat go dry at this display, and to distract himself, he started to pack down some more powder into his musket, before dropping a ball in. His stomach was tied in knots with terrified fear, but he couldn't let that stop him.

Magica's body had begun to change. The dead hands slipped the robes she wore off, revealing the nakedness of the old woman underneath. Spots and wrinkles seemed to melt away as the potion worked its magic on her body. Dewey had to suppress his gasp as the bosom began to fill out, and sagging skin realigned with the sleek body in a process Dewey found fascinatingly grotesque.

Looked down at his Musket, he decided to fight. Iron bullets pass through magic barriers after all. He raised it and fired, but the sorceress was already more powerful than ever before. With a wave of her hand, the musket ball stopped in mid-air and turned, nearly piercing Dewey straight through if he hadn't ducked out of the way in time.

"You are a fascinating plaything, Dewey Duck. You have grown into such a strapping young thing. It would be a shame to kill you straight out," said the astral projection, who had begun to look more and more like the rapidly de-aging husk below, naked and gorgeous, and touching herself all over and reveling in the sensations the Aphrodite Elixir warmed in her.

"Go to hell, Magica!" Yelled Dewey as he tamped down another round into the musket.

"Eventually, yes, but not for a long time now." Then the projection froze, a probing finger drew itself back from its explorations, "Wait... what...?"

Dewey looked down at the body. Something had changed within it. The husk had slumped over, the spirit above having lost control of the magic keeping it upright and connected to her spirit.

"What? No! It cannot be!"

Dewey wanted so to cover his eyes, but found he couldn't. Magica's age had regressed to the prime of womanhood, beautiful, supple, raven-haired and smoky-eyed, but somehow the skin and feathers seemed off. Dewey soon realized why. It was crawling.

"No! No! NO! What went wrong? The spell! The spell is backfiring!"

Dewey could only watch in terror as the feathers began to molt off of the duck, revealing that the skin underneath had become red and runny. Skin no more, it had begun to resemble the muscle underneath, and all over the woman's body, it ran off like water. Soon the inner mechanics of the body were laid bare for Dewey to behold; wide, lidless eyes beheld in unconscious terror; Beak, falling open, allowing the flesh of the mouth to dribble out, before the tendons and cartilage holding the orange bill up melted away, causing it to fall to the floor with a sickening thump; Hands, slender fingers of both hands stripping away to reveal muscle, then the white peeks of bones between.

The projection above, still nude and alluring, was screaming in pain and terror, too far-gone to form words for what was happening to her one and only body.

Soon, something had begun to take hold inside as well. Her chest expanded, as if breathing, but then seemed to widen like a measure of elastic. The area around her heart grew out, pushing the liquefying bones out of the way, before the muscle exploded outward, spraying all of the blood forward in a harsh stream towards Dewey. Magica's force spell still held, however, and Dewey beheld the strange sight of all of the blood of a Duck's body dripping down a pane of invisible glass.

Finally, the body itself gave a death rattle, a horror-filled scream to rival that of its soul, before the entire body detonated, meat and bone quickly flying apart in an orgy of gore that Dewey couldn't tear his eyes from. The chunks fell to the floor, held within the circle by the force field, before they finally completed the melting process, and, eventually, evaporated away, meat, bone, blood and all, leaving only a vague stench of death, tinged with roses.

"No! How? HOW?"

"You picked the wrong dime, Magica." Said Dewey, letting words flow out of his mouth so his lunch wouldn't, "Scrooge's dime is powerless. It has been since he was gone. He... He isn't around to give it meaning anymore."

"But...! But I saw you use the dime to counteract the symbol! I saw the power with my own two astral eyes!"

"You saw this!" Dewey pulled from his pocket his own number one, still tied to its string, "Scrooge isn't the richest duck in the world anymore. I am. Flintheart Glomgold is dead and his businesses dispersed, John Rockerduck was never even close, and that just leaves me, Dewey Duck, rightful owner of McDuck Enterprise and de-facto Richest Duck alive," He stuck out his hand holding the dime, proudly, "And this is the first dime I ever earned with my own labor."

Magica's spirit, all that was left of her now, drew away from the sight of the dime and screamed like a banshee as she flew away, through the roof, and up into the sky, railing at the unfair world that had wronged her so.

Dewey looked around, before pocketing the dime. The latent magic in the hut, held up by Magica's spirit, dispersed, and the horrid smell held in by the force field, a smell of death and corrosion, wafted past. He held his beak holes shut as he stepped forwards to the now still cauldron, its contents having evaporated along with the victim of its horror-filled spell. He looked down into it. He reached inside. He found, at the bottom, a lump of metal, a composition of silver and copper, with seated liberty's still recognizable on one side. It had been melted slightly, and crinkled by the corrosive magic. It was recognizable as a dime, but no one would ever take her as currency every again.

Dewey stared at the lump, before he pocketed it. Without a word, and trying to block out the things he had seen, he searched the hut until he found another measure of telepowder, intending to go back to Chihuahua and take as much time as he needed to get over whatever totally never happened here today.

Before he threw the powder into the fire, he dug the ruined dime out of his pocket again. Scrooge had always thought of it as a useless keepsake. The first bit of money that he attributed memories to. A shoeshine boy in Glasgow, Scotland, unknowing heir to a castle, a legacy, treasure, adventure, thrills, heartbreak, just trying to earn his way in the world.

Dewey shook his head of the images of his uncle he had never seen. Those weren't his memories. They were never his memories.

I should leave it behind, he thought, Scrooge is gone, and there's no reason to keep it anymore.

But then, he thought about all of that time they spent defending the money bin. Storms of Beagle Boys, A witch, a rival millionaire. Some after the money itself, others after just a part. He looked down at the remains of the dime. He remembered his own first encounter with it. He and his brothers were being lead through the money bin for the first time. Scrooge looked old, tired. More exhausted than they ever saw him like again after that. It was in a glass dome, on a green cushion. It had been just after that hard Christmas up on Bear mountain when they had first heard from their uncle, and slept in that dangerous bear-infested cabin. Uncle Donald pointed out the dime to me, calling it, like many did, the "Lucky dime." I jump as Scrooge's voice cuts the air, refuting the name. Calling it "Balderdash." He wears a hat that I learn later is his clan tartan.

Moments later, he opened the vault door, and there, just sitting there, was more money than I had ever seen in my life.

Dewey looked up from the dime, to the fire, then back down to the dime. He salvaged the long string from his own dime, figuring he could find another somewhere, and tied it into a rough circle. He then took a thin implement, some sort of needle, from off of one of Magica's workbenches, and poked a hole through the still-softened metal before it could harden back up and become just a hunk of Silver and copper. He threaded the string through the hole in the dime, before hanging it around his neck, underneath his shirt.

Those are my memories, he thought, attached to his dime. He wanted me to make my own memories, and my own fortune. That's why I kept it. He smiled as he threw the powder into the fireplace, thinking of that hearth in Chihuahua.

I already had my own memories, all along.

***

In the long, sacked hall of the Thembrian palace of the former Tsar, his most excellent Grand High Marshall of Thembria was taking a call from overseas. Unable to move his arms, a servant held the receiver to his mouth, and the speaker to his ear, and covered his own ears with cotton so he could not eavesdrop.

He talked of politics, and the tiring maze of it all, and how the fantastic is so much more interesting.

He talked of money, and his disdain for it.

He talked of power, and his lust for it.

He talked of living forever, and how he feared that it would never come.

He talked for an hour over the phone, undeterred by such things as phone charges, expecting the country's coffers to pay for any necessary luxuries he required.

As he talked, he suddenly heard a second voice in his mind, as if in a dream. He began to splutter on and on to the person on the other line. Ducks. Dimes. America. The fugitive Dewey Duck. The Sea Duck. There is a Dime held by the fugitive. That is the Capitalist symbol. If he can attain it and destroy it... or better yet...

Memories, as if from another body flowed into his mind. Something called the elixir of Aphrodite. Religious hogwash of course, but... but the promise of eternal health, youth, and beauty? To be young and handsome again. To be able to move from this bed.

He began to breathe hard as he rambled, and the State Telephone Operator hadn't noticed. He must find the dime. He must find Dewey Duck. He must create the Elixir, and live forever. So says Rasputin!

He awoke, his brow covered in sweat, the man on the other end of the line calling into the line.

"Marshall, Marshall. Are you all right?"

"Rasputin has come to me in a dream. His earthly vessel has been slain once more."

"Oh."

"But he has... But he has given me a mission. A glorious war of honor against the terrorist, Dewey Duck, for that symbol of Capitalist blindness and corruption, this... 'lucky dime.' I must..." He breathed deep, his eyes wide, "I must have it!"

The voice on the other end of the line seemed to smile. "I think," said Farid Kagan, to his new friend and business partner the Grand High Marshall of Thembria, "That is a wonderful idea."

As plans were formulated and the tide of events began to rise, there could be heard a wild cackle echoing through the grand hall, disappearing as the last of her magic faded, with a smell of death and roses.


	19. Episode 19

Episode 19:

In the fields, among grazing cows and surly ranch hands on horseback, the Sea Duck stood inert, tamping down the grass where its landing gear met the turf. Spread out beside the great yellow bird was a rough brown blanket, with sets of old but well-loved tools laid out. The front engine block of the Sea Duck in the nose was open, and Huey, having stripped off his leather jacket and undershirt and tied them off around his waist, was covered in sweat from the hot day and oil from the plane he was taking care of. Nearby, down to his shirt-front and holding his jacket in his arms while fanning himself with his hat, stood Louie in civilian garb. The extent of his injuries seemed to be healed, with nothing but a lingering ache in the ribs, and even then only when jumping from building to building.

The shirtless Huey stood up straight. While his upper body had seemed larger to Louie when they had first met after all these years, he understandably had had few chances to pay any real attention to things like that since the days of the Baiano pousada. Louie was a little irked, frankly, that Huey had been able to bulk up so much by flying planes and getting into fistfights, while he, who did exercises every morning after work, and was supremely active during the night besides, had still retained the lithe form natural to Ducks and their ilk.

Huey went on with their conversation, "He's still alive, Louie. That's just stupid."

"Paul McCartney is dead, Huey, you can't argue with the evidence," said Louie, annoyed at his brother's ignorance, "Cover of Abbey Road, the backwards messages in 'Strawberry Fields' and 'Revolution 9.'" He whispered low, with the timber of a conspirator, "'I buried Paul.' 'Turn me on, dead man.' How do you argue that?"

"He's still putting out Records, Louie. Why would this... what's the imposter's name supposed to be again?"

Louie tapped his head, as if imparting some crucial clue, "William Shears Campbell, Huey. Billy Shears."

Huey rolled his eyes, "Right, so if that band broke up last year, why would... Billy, want to continue the charade?"

Louie shrugged, "To use Paul's good name to launch a solo career I guess. He's going to do it too." Louie nodded, satisfied that his point had been made, "Paul was killed in a car crash during Sergeant Pepper, I can't see how anyone can see it differently."

"See, this is why I liked the Stones better," said Huey, "Beatles fans are so pretentious."

Louie growled, his brow creasing in frustration. "Philistine."

"I know what I like, and I don't like having to see stupid little messages in everything I listen to. What's the point? Can't you just enjoy the music?"

"Of course I enjoy...!" Louie stopped, sighing, "I don't even know why I try. It's always like this when we talk about the Beatles."

"When you talk about the Beatles," said Huey, diving into the engine block wielding a wrench, "you always bring it up. They broke up, they're gone, live with it."

"They might make a comeback!" Louie said, "anyway, Lennon is keeping the flame alive, even if he is with that woman. I wish I wasn't stuck in the middle of nowhere. I hear he put out a new album. There probably isn't a record store for a few thousand miles in any direction."

"I always found Lennon too... I dunno... spiteful," said Huey, "Like he would look at his fans and thing, 'They're so stupid.'"

"Not spiteful!" Louie sneered, "Above it all. Anyway, what do you know? You don't even listen to them."

"Of course I listened to them. You wore out three copies of Sergeant Pepper making everyone in the house listen to them. Everyone was sick of it by the time the third one died."

"You have to agree that after that, all bets were off. It was the first truly new thing to happen in music in years!"

"Yes, maybe the first three thousand times. After that it starts to get old."

"Pah!" called Louie, falling silent as Huey turned back towards the engine. Finally, his eyes lit up. A rebuttal so perfect, so cutting, that it comes only once in a lifetime!

"Huey, I..."

"Huey!" Cried the Carioca girls as they ran up. "Huey!"

"...Oh, shit," said Louie, letting the epic burn fade away.

"Oh. Hi girls," said Huey, his smile and grace attaining a bit of masculine posturing, although with the slightest bit of confusion as to which of the girls he should direct his charm towards, "What's up?"

With rehearsed perfection, all three girls, with bright smiles, pointed towards the sky.

"Ha-ha," Louie said, thinking it so cute he might just kill himself, "There's no talking to you about some things, Huey. I'm out of here."

"You'll be back," Huey smirked, "I'm all you got. Farmhands wouldn't know 'Hey Jude' from a hole in the wall, and Dewey hasn't listened to music since 1959."

Louie had already started off, however, "Whatever." And he was gone.

Huey laughed, and turned back towards the girls, who each echoed his jolly smile as they swarmed over him, twining their arms in his.

"So. Uh. What did you girls want, exactly?"

Amalia smiled and looked to Maria. Maria took the smile, amplified it with a giggle, and passed her gaze along to Rosalina. Rosalina gave them both a smirking look, before turning back towards Huey.

"Nothing."

"Ah. Well," said Huey, their strange wordless communication reminding him of how he and his brothers used to be, and marveling that three girls who had grown up apart from one another could learn the trick, "I'm, er, almost done tuning up the Sea Duck. Would any of you like to join me for some supper?"

A hand, he wasn't quite sure whose, rubbed its hand through his bare chest.

"We would like that," said Rosalina.

Huey smiled, wondering which one it was who touched him, wondering if the girls were aware of the fact that since Bahia they had gone to bed with Huey at least twice, each, and wondered how angry they would be at him and each other if they ever found out. He then thought of their Uncle-slash-father. He then thought of his own corpse, with Panchito standing over it, whooping and hollering.

The thought caused him to laugh quickly and break away from the three amorous girls and bend over the engine block to hide his sudden fear, "I'll, er, meet you kids at the tavern. Okay?"

"Okay, Huey," they all said, before each blowing a kiss, causing Huey to panic once again. Which one should I do something cute with?

Thankfully, they were gone before the imaginary kisses flying through the air could land on their marks, and Huey breathed a sigh of relief. As utterly exciting as this situation was, it couldn't be good for his blood pressure.

He finished up the tune up on the engine, just a few tightened, ancient components, and he was free to join the girls at the Tavern, where there was sure to be some lovely stew or other waiting for them.

He turned as a cloud passed overhead, blotting out the sun. He looked up on a whim, and found that clouds have gotten a lot darker and closer to the earth since he was a kid.

***

A young woman with a bright red pattern of feathers placed two mugs of cool, frothing beer on the table, before placing between them a small glass of water.

"Thanks," said Dewey, sitting at a table with José and Panchito, looking perfectly miserable, "Now tell me, you two, where did PK run off to?"

"Why do you think we would know?" said José, after a puff of his thick cigar, "He is as an enigma to us as much as he is to you, Dewey."

"As you went into the fire to chase the Weetch, he seemed to just vanish away."

Dewey closed his eyes and fingered his water glass. His other hand seemed to hover over the center of his chest. "Huey and Louie said as much. I was hoping you two..." He shook his head, "Never mind. I just wish I could get a bead on that guy. First he beats up Louie, then he helps us find Fenton Crackshell, and then helps us against Magica DeSpell. Even if he is on our side, all the same, Panchito, I'd like your men to be on the lookout for him. He's probably still around."

"Si, amigo."

The three drank in silence, Panchito with relish, José with a mind full of wistful remembrance of cachaça, and Dewey with annoyance at the apparent ignorance of his allies, when he was so sure he remembered them and PK acting almost like old friends.

"By the way, Dewey," asked Panchito, innocently, "Where is Webby? She and you are nearly never seen apart for so long."

"She..." He looked down into his water, "She, uh. She's taking care of Doofus."

"The big guy?" said José, his face expressing the distaste of someone watching a soap opera where his favorite characters do not end up together, "That is... nice of her."

"They... We used to be old friends before we grew apart. Apparently, Webby was friends with him a little longer than we were."

"Of course," Said José, "Panchito, I regret to ask, but could you leave us alone for just a moment?"

Panchito looked towards the sullen Duck and the concerned parrot and understood, "Say no more, amigo." He then stood, taking his drink and walking over to a burly crow who led the guard patrols.

"What's this about, José?"

"I would like to speak of matters of love, Dewey."

Dewey started, blinking as his head rose quickly. He turned towards José's smirking, knowing face, before he darted his eyes away, afraid looking at the green parrot might reveal something untoward. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Some men drink, some men write poetry, some men sulk. Alcohol and paper cost money, so I made a nice guess." José placed a hand on Dewey's shoulder, "You are in love my frien'."

"I... It's not... she's my personal assistant, I just miss her... uh... organization."

"I did not mention Webby. I only mentioned love."

"Oh! Oh..." he crossed his arms, "Well that's ridiculous."

"This new Doofus fellow is getting you down."

"He... Well... They seem to act... Together they seem... I don't know. I don't want to talk about it."

"Of course."

He and Dewey sat for another moment, drinking.

Dewey spoke up, filling the trap of silence José had left, "I know they were friends and all, but... they act like they have... a past together or something."

"Perhaps they do."

"Yes, but... Webby is..." He sighed, "How do I...?"

"Courage, Dewey. You can fight back. You and she hev' been together too long now and through too much..."

"I..." He tried to look positive, "I guess so."

"The only thing holding you back from her is yourself, not that Doofus fellow."

"I... You're... José, I..."

But suddenly, the door to the tavern swung open, letting the bright sunshine into the bar. The shadow that stood in the frame was of a duck. Dewey stood.

Huey Duck spoke, "Don't get up on my account." He began to walk forward, his hands up in the air. He was being followed by another figure, "We've got company."

The glint of the sword pointed towards the duck's back caused every gun in the tavern to be drawn.

"Ah-ah-ah!" said this new man's voice, "One wrong step and I am running him through, yes?"

Panchito raised his hand and gave a signal, and every man, woman, and child in the tavern lowered his or her pistol.

"Thank you very much for your co-operation," said the voice, stepping into the light of the tavern.

Dewey yelled, "Commodore...!"

"So glad you remember me, Mr. Dewey Duck, fugitive. We have been tracking you for quite some time."

"No!" Dewey cried, "No. Not now."

Perry Kid rolled his eyes, "Aw don't get all upset. I'm not here to arrest you." He planted a fancy boot in Huey's back and pushed, sending him to the ground. He then sheathed his sword, "I am here with my crew on behalf of S.H.U.S.H. The investigation on Mr. Farid Kagan is underway."

Huey and Dewey perked up suddenly. Huey crawled away slightly before standing to his feet and turning. "Why didn't you say so? You didn't have to...!"

"Because I still do not like you, and it was well within my legal options. Yes no?" He smiled deviously.

"What are you doing here then?" said a voice from behind Perry Kid. Kid looked behind to see The Green Phantom standing behind him, face painted mask obscuring his face, hands hovering over his utility belt.

"It seems I am surrounded," the coyote said with a smile, raising his arms, "It is all right, yes? S.H.U.S.H merely wants you all taken into custody..." a twitch of guns and gadgets, "No! No! It's not like that. You have been... partially absolved."

"You mean...?" said Dewey.

"They think we're innocent?" finished Huey.

"Maybe! In any case, I am required to take you in peacefully. I do not get to start shooting unless you refuse." He looked to Dewey. "Please refuse."

All eyes turned to Dewey. He crossed his arms slowly, before nodding. "If it will help S.H.U.S.H's investigation, we will be happy to cooperate." He looked up, "But only us three. The others have nothing to do with it."

"No!" said a voice at the top of the stairs. Webby ran down, followed by Doofus, "If you're taking Dewey, I'm coming too."

"Webby?" said Dewey, "Webby. Don't..."

"No. I'm coming, and that's final."

"Me too!" said Doofus, his shoulder appearing to be nearly fully healed.

"And Us!"

Seemingly from nowhere, the three Carioca girls had appeared from somewhere, and had latched onto Huey.

"G-girls?"

José smiled, but with a note of pain beyond the jolly façade, "Ahh. Youth."

"Well. Such a big family," scoffed the Commodore, "Very well. Within the hour Dewey Duck." He then came face to face with the Green Phantom, "To one side, yes no?"

Louie moved out of his way, letting him out the door.

All members of the group gathered in the middle of the room wordlessly. Hope sprang among them. This was their chance to finally stop running. Their chance to be safe and secure for once. Louie thought of Saint Canard, and of climbing and swinging among tall buildings. Huey thought of the sky, and the Cape, and the world. Dewey thought of his business, and what he would do once it was once again his.

Nodding their heads in agreement, they each dispersed their separate ways to pack up and prepare for the long trip to the SIL home base.

***

Chattering among themselves, the three girls packed three small bags filled with as many supplies as they could fit. Their conversation meandered on about nothing, pointedly ignoring the big move they were about to take. The closet of their small room in the tavern, filled with nothing much but a few extra dresses, was stripped bare and each color dress was shuffled off to the bag to the appropriate girl.

There came a knock at the door, and the girls smiled. They ran towards their places. Amalia draped herself over the small chair like a duvet, pulling a strap off of her shoulder and letting his hang. Maria sat on the floor, to read a book, her legs curved out under her. Rosalina took the bed, lying on her stomach in such a way that the cavernous canyon formed by her breasts was accentuated by being squished between her body and the mattress. The three girls nodded towards each other, before they each said, "Come in!"

The door opened, and the girls looked their sexiest, and were momentarily disappointed when it turned out to be their Uncle Carioca and not Huey Duck. The three of them switched their language to Portuguese.

"Hello Tio Carioca," they said, easing into more comfortable, less sexy positions.

"Hello girls," said José as he walked in supported by his umbrella, cigar between his fingers, "I'd like to speak with you."

Amalia stood up from the chair, allowing José to sit. The girls surrounded their uncle, looking up at him with familial adoration.

"What about, Tio Carioca?" asked Rosalina.

José began to look a bit uncomfortable. "You see, girls. It... You all are going away from me, and I don't know if I shall ever see you again." The girls began to speak all at once, and José raised a kindly hand to silence them, "I don't wish to lie to you girls any longer. I think you are old enough to know of the truth."

"What is this about, Tio Carioca?" asked Rosalina, laying her hands on José's arm.

To stall for time, José let out a sigh of smoke from his cigar, "It is... about your parents. Your mothers, all of them, are beautiful, wonderful women, and your fathers are... are good, honorable men that I do not deserve to call my cousins." His hand was trembling suddenly, and he grabbed the arms of the chair tightly to try to stifle the motion. "I... I knew them all well and... and I'm sorry to say that I have done your father's a great disservice. I... I am somewhat of a lecherous man, I think. I always have been. That is why I never married, you see. Too many women, even in my advanced age, I cannot stop myself." He looked at the girls and shook a finger, "You must never fall in love with a man like me, my little ones. He will break your heart."

"Yes, Tio Carioca," said the girls dutifully.

"Is that what you wanted to say?" asked Rosalina, "Is this about Huey?"

"No! No no. Huey is a good man to be sure. I talk about... I talk about myself. You see..." beads of sweat appeared at his brow, "You see, girls, I... I am... Your Mothers were very dear to me, and I, well, I..."

He stopped as he felt three dainty hands lay themselves over his own wrinkled hand gently. He looked into the faces of each of his daughters, so alike to him, and yet with their basic feminity making them so different. Each of them smiled kindly.

They each spoke in turn, "Our mothers" "Told us" "Tio Carioca."

"Then... you already know?" his eyebrows raised up and crinkled in remorse, "That I am...?"

They nodded.

José stood suddenly, taking a pained drag on his ever-present cigar, "Then... Then you must think I'm..." He leaned on the wall to the room, laying a hand on his him. "I... I feel terrible about what I did to them. Your mothers and fathers. I can't help but... You must hate me for what I have done to you."

Running up to José, Amalia was the first to speak in the beautiful excesses of language, "No! Tio Carioca, we all love you. We will always love you. Your visits to our homes were some of the best memories of our lives. When our mothers told us about you, they did not tell us in regret or rage. They said so in the wistful remembrance of a love long past. They love our fathers, but they adored you, who gave them their greatest nights of romance and passion. And we owe you a debt of gratitude. We three grew up apart as cousins and dear friends and pen pals, but when we were told we were suddenly all daughters of José Carioca, and while we will always love our fathers as fathers, we will always love you for tying us together as sisters."

The three parrot girls gave their uncle a great hug, all together. As they embraced, José could feel his eyes mist over from a swell in his chest, an overflow of gorgeous emotion that he had never felt before. A feeling of fatherly love, rather than mere affection as he had felt before, had come over him, and he couldn't help but wipe away his rapidly forming tears.

"Rosalina," he said, touching her face, "Maria," and hers, "Amalia," and hers, "I... thank you. I cannot believe I have never been as happy as I am at this moment." He encircled the three girls in a strong embrace, which they reciprocated, wrapping their arms around him and each other. "I... I only wish I had more time..."

A knock at the door. Webby's voice called, "Almost time to go, girls. Get ready."

"Must you?" asked José, "Must you leave now?"

Rosalina nodded. "If we don't follow Huey now, Tio..."

Maria continued, "...We'll regret it..."

"..For the rest of our lives," finished Amalia.

José, a great believer in life, and taking advantage to it to the fullest, understood his three daughters perfectly. It was too late for him to be their father, and too late for the three blossoms in spring to stay cooped up with him until he was ready to let them go. They had to chase after their love, by any means necessary, just as he had in his turbulent, amorous, fantastic youth.

"Then... I give my blessing. I may not be able to speak for your own parents, but I can speak for myself," he loosened his grip and looked at the girls, noting that their cheeks and beaks were stained with tears as well, "Go. Go to him. Chase after him. Have the time of your lives. And I only have one request."

"What is it..." "...Tio..." "...Carioca?"

"When you are ready, you come back to me, and tell me all of your adventures." He nodded, wiping his eyes, satisfied at what had occurred here today, "Now go. Don't let me see you again until you have lived."

With a kiss, each girl left the green parrot alone in the room, taking her bag and departing without as much as a second look. Amalia was the last to leave, and she gave a strained, "Goodbye" as she exited into the hall and towards life.

José watched the empty doorframe for a long time after that, hoping perhaps, that somehow they would have a change of heart. He waited, even as he heard the distant sounds of the Sea Duck's engines roaring to life and taking off to meet the Iron vulture in mid-air. Eventually, however, he sat down, his eyes dry and strong. He took his cigar, which had burnt down to nothing but a stubby roach, and put it out on an ashtray on a table by the chair.

He knew that his part in this adventure was over, somehow, and that the part he had played for the Duck boys and PK, and all the rest was over. He could go back to Bahia, try to rebuild the bed and breakfast there, or perhaps go back to the hotel in Rio if it is still there. He had some money squirreled away, perhaps he should finally rest on his laurels. Retire, perhaps, live somewhere and await the return of his girls with the stories of their youth. He was too old to marry, and soon would be too old for the alternative, so perhaps he should just stop.

But then he thought of his time with the Sea Duck; His time in Bahia, dealing with the personalities of the three boys, each so full of life and regrets and futures in their own way. He thought back on Panchito, doing what he loved to do, and still ready and able to at an even higher age than himself. He thought of his friend Donald...

No. Never retire, He thought, When the girls come back to me, they will bring me stories of their adventures, and I will pay them right back with stories of mine!

He smiled to himself, reaching into the pocket of his coat for another cigar. He thought dimly that he might need to give that up soon, with thoughts of his health looming over his head. However, he lit it up anyway. If he was to live life as his girls were, he would live all of it. Good and bad. He stood quietly and walked out the door, down towards the front room of the tavern. Soon he would go back to Rio and use what he has learned from Dewey to remake his hotel as a successful venture. Perhaps he will build a stage and give floorshows every now and again. In the meantime, however, a dear friend was downstairs, waiting to be entertained in the here and now. He could not disappoint, not as long as he was alive.

***

"Alright Junior, open up. We're coming in," said Huey into the CB.

"What is the magic word?" Asked that Spanish inflected voice.

" Alright Junior, open up. We're coming in, Motherfucker," answered Huey dryly.

There was a momentary growl that was cut off mid-tone as Kid began to speak, "You will watch your step around me, Mr. Duck, yes no? Remember how soundly you were thrashed the last time we came face to face, remember. Do not tempt me."

"You first."

After a pause, the CB went dead, and the Iron Vulture began to open up. Huey smiled and pointed the nose into the large airship. This was the home stretch, it had to be.

And even if it's not, what a ride!


	20. Episode 20

Episode 20:

The Iron Vulture had, in its Port side near the top, a guest quarter of some luxury. Florid tapestries and curtains hung around the room, gilt with inlays of silver and gold in flowering vine patterns that warmed the room when in the presence of natural lighting. Urns and pots from china and India were laid about and kept fresh with flowers and plants to keep the room friendly. The walls were burgundy, and each of the three rooms available had a huge four-poster bed which matched the walls impeccably. Everything in the rooms had the feeling of some age and history, but was well-taken care of.

Louie had taken the rich red curtains down from the top crossbar of the four-poster, and had begun doing chin-ups. Dewey was sitting at a stained Oak drawing table with carved patterns on the sides and drawers, and was doing some calculations on a sheet of stationary that was provided with the room. Huey paced the gold-threaded carpet, looking utterly perturbed.

Dewey, without looking up from his calculations of how much money they have spent on this little excursion, with little lumps in his throat forming when he looked at how much they have spent on gas for the sea duck so far, said, annoyed, "Huey, You're making me nervous. Sit down."

"I don't like it," was the reply.

"You can dislike it while standing in one place... or sitting. Sitting is wonderful."

"Here we are, after running for our lives for over a year and now we've just given ourselves to the guys chasing us..."

"ONE of the guys chasing us. They guys who, if they had caught us, wouldn't have killed us." Dewey looked up. "And what's the big deal? They said they're investigating Farid. They'll find us innocent and we can go on with our..."

"IF they find us innocent. It is still very possible they might not find what they're looking for, or Farid covered his tracks too well."

"You worry too much, Huey."

"I think I'm entitled to some worry, frankly. We're prisoners here..."

"It's a lovely room," said Dewey, "Commodore Kid said it's for statesmen and other guests who come through. We're lucky we're not back in the brig."

"It's a cage all the same," Huey rebuked as he flung himself into a wine-colored armchair, "And we walked right into it."

Louie landed on the ground with a thump, sweat beading on his forehead. He took a sodden towel from the nightstand and wiped himself down. "For what it's worth, Huey's got a point."

"Not you too!"

"It is a cage. It's a very nice cage, but we're still trapped with the SIL. However," He turned towards Huey and smiled, "You shouldn't worry like that."

"And why not?"

"Darkwing, of course. I trust Darkwing to come through for us." He nodded with some finality. "End of story." After speaking this he laid himself out on the bed, stretching the burn out of his muscles, "So, Dewey, what's the damage?"

"Huh?"

Huey picked up the meaning. "How much have we spent?"

"Oh! Er." He turned back towards his figures and furrowed his brow. "About ten thousand for airplane fuel, Nearly five hundred thousand in losses from the Bed and Breakfast..."

"You've still got the money from the till, right?" asked Louie, "How much was that?"

"About two million cruzeiro."

"And in American?"

"About ten bucks, and falling." He sighed and continued, "Food for the little revolving door crew... Including that steak dinner AND the bottle of scotch... came to about fifteen thousand dollars. Clothes, repairs for the sea duck, miscellaneous expenses (including gifts and other such luxuries from you to those silly girls, Huey)... This all comes to..."

"Skip it," said Huey, "I don't want to know."

"We're very grateful that you're footing the bill for this little expedition, Huey," said Louie, "It's very nice of you."

"Aw, quiet. I know I've still got close to a septuplepillion thousand centrifugillion left, but still... You should know how losing a chunk that big can affect someone."

" Dewey, maybe, but not you Huey. I thought you were cooler about money."

"I am! I mean... at least... Well, I think it's just a lot of money to lose at once, y'know?"

Louie smiled. Dewey smiled. Neither one could ever comprehend the reason for the other's amusement.

Huey threw his hands up, "Moving along. I still think we should be careful around that Kid guy. I don't trust a guy who is that much into the law."

"Huey. I'm a superhero."

"And illegal superhero, remember. I'm just saying anyone who is that way creepily into the law won't hesitate to turn on us if things don't go our wa..."

But before he could finish speaking, the entire room shook violently. Dewey's chair turned over, spilling him and his money notes on the floor, while Huey and Louie threw themselves to the floor as a simple safety precaution. When the shaking subsided, Louie nearly screamed.

"What was that?"

Huey, however, was already up on his feet, "Come on!" he yelled, before he slammed the door to their room open and ran out. Very soon, he was followed by Dewey and Louie, who didn't bother getting into costume.

***

Through the air in flew, in defiance of gravity and sense, a giant, bulbous iron balloon, a Zeppelin, which ran at the top, the scarlet tones of the Thembrian flag.

The Bridge of the Iron vulture was in an uproar. Perry Kid sat in the center, a rock among tangled white rapids, as his men ran about, operating consoles and relaying information about the Iron Vulture, the Thembrians, their current strength, their opponent's strength, and the specs of the giant balloon in front of them.

The Commodore held a handheld up to his mouth and began to speak in authoritative tones, his eyes frozen on the quickly approaching Thembrian airship, "Thembrians. You have opened fire upon an SIL craft, and by extension, a S.H.U.S.H-sponsored craft in international air. This could be considered an act of war. I will give you a moment to explain yourselves or surrender. If you do not comply we will blow you out of the sky."

He then listened for some answering noise over the radio, willing them to respond. Soon enough, a Thembrian answered.

"Our fearless leader requires that you surrender Dewey Duck and his entourage. If you do not comply, we will be forced to take them from you by force."

"I order the compliances here, bub. Dewey Duck is in S.H.U.S.H custody. You cannot have him, yes?"

"And he is what we were ordered to collect. Submit or die." There was a rough clicking noise and the line went dead.

The Commodore placed a hand on his forehead, "Oy. These Iron curtain jockeys vex me so. Why is it they cannot act like sane people?"

"It's their society," said a voice behind him, "They believe we're inferior thanks to our different ideologies. Things like that don't fit neatly into that little thing called international law."

A hundred guns were trained on Huey and his brothers as they entered the bridge.

"What are you doing here?" cried Kid, "Get back to your quarters."

"And miss all the action? I think not. We're on this ship, There are women and wounded upstairs, and my employer's potentially very expensive vintage plane is in the hangar. I think we have a right to make sure it gets through this little incident all right."

Pointing a wild finger towards the exit, Perry Kid was about to scream for his men to run them out of the bridge, when a voice lanced through his radio.

"Time is up, dogs! Do you comply or do we take them by force?"

Perry kid looked at the radio with an unhinged look in his eyes, before picking the receiver up in one hand while gesturing for the boys to sit in the corner. "We do no such thing." He slammed the receiver down before screaming, "Aim all guns for the Red Thunder. Fire at will!"

A gunshot rang out, before a man in an SIL uniform ran out of the room screaming, being chased by the thick Rand, holding a musket. The Commodore sighed, and wondered if the sky pirates ever had to deal with idiot crewmen. Huey couldn't help but smirk.

***

The Zeppelin, the Red Thunder, was a vehicle of East German design which had become widely used in the ever important sky by soviet and soviet-allied military. The modern touch of the vehicle, including new bits added on since the 1940s, made for a terror of the sky. A maneuverable fortress of the sky to rival the airships of the sky pirates used back in the golden day, and for a fraction of the fuel and resources.

The two giants of engineering triumph met in the sky over the Atlantic Ocean a little past noon. The first shot was fired from the great cannons attached to the Red Thunder's side and struck the hull of the Iron Vulture. From there, the two titans entered into a dogfight of legend, the bodies of the two airships circling 'round each other, over and under, trying to gain the superior position. Meanwhile, around their heads buzzed flocks of fighter jets spinning and whirling around their mother ships like lazy flies, firing at one another, and trying to wrest the advantage away from their opponent.

War over the Atlantic raged on well into the day. Wrecks ignited in the air, and fell to the sea like confused fireworks, exploding as they neared the green and blue sea, or smashing into the waves, the force of the blast contributing height and impact to the splash.

Within, the two commanders screamed orders at their men, ordering more, less, forwards, up, down, thinking in a million directions at once for the good of their survival, ideals and ideas and demands flying out the window as the two forces tried to repel and destroy the other.

Eventually, the limited manpower of the Iron Vulture, meant for skirmishes with smugglers and not formal war, began to give out. The jets that were left had to do more with less power, luring the Thembrian airplanes into the paths of the Vulture or Red Thunder's guns, or leading them to ruin by smashing into the sides of one of their parent ships. They fought valiantly, but struggled against the fully armed might of a strong military might wielded efficiently.

***

The hours had flown by, and the boys were worried. They looked on from their corner of the bridge, looking helpless as the Thembrian contingent bore down, trying to get at them.

"What do they want?" asked Louie.

"They probably heard about your little stunt with Magica DeSpell," said Huey, smirking, to Dewey, "I wouldn't put it past them."

"Ugh," shivered Dewey, remembering the event. He quickly changed the subject, "What if...? What if they get in?"

"Then..." Huey stretch his arms lightly, and Louie unconsciously adjusted the belt he wore under his clothes. "...We fight them off."

In a frenzy, Perry Kid was standing on his captain's chair and railing at him men. Rage had made him forget his own head and he spoke in mannered, but still angry, Spanish. Huey walked up purposefully.

"You're getting slaughtered out there, Junior."

"And what would you know you Infamous ingrate? I oughta throw you three in the brig just for lookin' at me funny, yes no?"

"I know the air. You're playing right into their hands. Those new zeppelins rely on their large capacity for fighters to protect them while they bombard their targets. You can't fight off their numbers by yourself, not with this disorganized crew."

"My crew is being none of your business Duck!"

"You have to retreat. Cut your losses. Keep us out of danger."

"I will do no such thing! The SIL does not bow to terrorists!"

Their faces had gotten closer and closer as the two men yelled at each other, until another impact on the stern of the Iron Vulture caused Perry Kid to fall over on top of Huey. Interpreting this as a threat, Huey began to fight the wildly flailing coyote, until both were a rolling dust cloud of fists and legs. Soon, the crewmen known as Ein had grabbed his Commodore, sporting a burning black eye, while Louie and Dewey had grabbed Huey, whose face was simply burning red.

"Attack ME will you? Fine!" Huey screamed, "I'll show you. I'll show you how a real man fights off an enemy."

He shrugged off his two brothers - quite hard as well, causing them to fall over on their behinds- and walked out of the bridge.

"Where are you going you silly duck?" Kid yelled.

"You're see!"

After a few moments, and a couple more impacts, the Commodore got his mind right. "Damage report!"

"20% damage. One engine disabled."

He nodded, extricating himself from Ein's grip, "Fine. If that rage-blind idiot can show such initiative, then someone with the full force of right should have no problem..."

"Commodore!" yelled a small Chihuahua dog with a pronounced lisp, "There's a commotion in the hangar!"

"WHAT?"

Dewey and Louie sighed.

***

"Final Squadrons, ten and eleven, prepare for take-off!"

The Scottie dog with an eye patch yelled towards the two three-man teams of fighter planes lining up to take off. With his limited peripheral vision, he wasn't able to see the whit fist coming at him from the red-faced duck. He fell to the ground a yard away, knocked out.

There was a commotion as several men opened fire on the duck, who ran towards the closest Jet, painted like a many-toothed monster. The men were ordered to stop firing, not wanting to damage the precious planes. The pilot, however, hadn't heard he order.

Huey climbed up to look at the helmeted pilot , who threw his canopy open and drew a service pistol. Thinking quick, Huey kicked the man's hand, before punching him soundly in the face. Soon, the man's body, stripped of his breathing apparatus and helmet seated firmly on Huey's head, was tossed over the side of the plane like so many bags of potatoes.

"Alright you!" cried Huey into the radio, "Watch and learn!"

"Listen y- URK!" said the voice of the Commodore, cut off.

Louie's voice cut in, "Huey. Do you even know how to pilot one of those things?"

"Uncle Sam wanted me to. Let's see if he was right." He then started it up, ignoring plainly many of the instruments, and relying on his own instincts. The engines roared to life, and his jet sped forward towards the wide open mouth of the Iron Vulture, and into the bright blue of the sky, stained black by clouds of smoke. Huey's back sank into the seat of the jet as his hands kept a steady grip on the control stick. He screamed at the G-forces, not out of weakness, but from sheer willfulness.

Faster than the eye could see the jet was out of the airship's dock and in the air, whirring around, pulling loops around the other, saner planes. There seemed to be some kind of spirit in the plane that caused it to move with almost presentimental grace. It approached the encroaching hoard of Thembrian planes, similar, but so slightly different from it. They fired, which the plane corked and twisted around in the air to avoid, before returning fire. A plane burst into flames from the precise shot, and the rest of the swarm turned away at once, creating a ripple of airplanes out from the exploding one.

Huey gave a yell, not hearing the Commodore scream back at him to turn his radio off to spare them all the fruits of his rage, and chased after the nearest plane. The Tightly packed Thembrians seemed like clumsy beetles to his graceful dragonfly. He pulled a loop, firing on several too-slow airplanes, which flared up and fell like stars.

Then they were upon him. A group of aces, three, flying in tight formation. They surrounded him, revolving around him like the orbits of an atom, and firing all the time. Huey had just enough presence of mind to ungulate his plane out of the way and cut a swath out from between the tight teamwork of the three Thembrians.

He was chased through the battle, and the consequences of his wild flying were felt throughout the battle. He swerved across groups of Thembrians menacing his temporary allies with the SIL, causing the unaware aces to perforate their own kin. As the three on his tail tried to use their numbers to trap him, he would fly among a group of allies. The aces were chased off by the firing of the few SIL left, and one of them took one right in the canopy, spraying through the air a sprits of blood and glass.

Wary and wise now, the two aces followed behind Huey's plane at a safe distance, trying to outlast him while staying out of the path of his wild guns. Unmolested, Huey was able to take out several more Thembrian jets, and under his actions, the tide of battle had begun to switch.

Desperate now, one of the aces drew close to Huey, intending to end this. Huey clenched his teeth, before pulling up sharp, revealing one of the Iron Vulture's guns. The cannon fired, and the plane, in mid pull-up, was torn right in half by the harsh shell. It looped around lazily, spinning as it fell to the sea, before exploding spectacularly.

Now, one-on-one, Huey looped around behind the last remaining ace who menaced him, firing on the unlucky Thembrian. The two pilots circled 'round, trying to line each other up in their sights. The dogfight dragged on and on, circling and barreling through the air, catching lesser pilots off guard and to an early, watery grave.

Huey gave a yell, the frustration of the fight causing a vein in his forehead to fill to bursting. With a sudden burst of skill, he tipped his plane in an odd maneuver, flying on his side just enough to pass the Thembrian, who panicked and pulled downwards. Huey then pulled up sharply, looping up and around, until the plane was facing downward again, and was lined up right behind the ace. With a single burst of his guns, he sent the last of his ammo into the jet engines of the Thembrian plane, and the entire thing combusted. Huey pulled up before his own nose could be caught in the leaping flames.

He then turned his sights towards the huge, momentarily unprotected Red Thunder zeppelin. He fired, but found that he had exhausted his ammo during the fight. FINE!

He hit the boosters, the throttles, the retros, the whatever-they-were-calleds, and speeded on towards the huge airship. He aimed for the panels in the Iron casing of the balloon that held the monster up, and braced himself for impact.

***

Boom!

Watching from the open mouth of the Iron Vulture, the girls, Huey's brothers, Webby and Doofus, and the Commodore watched the jet fly into the oblong target and explode. All at once, the volatile gasses inside combusted, and in a moment, the panels of the balloon were expelled out, dropping into the sea. The Red Thunder was, for a moment, alight in fire, before it was merely an empty, falling frame of its former shape. The cabins and hangar, now unsupported in the air, fell to the ground like a dull rock and broke in half with the impact of the water. They could not see beyond the lip of the Vulture without falling out of the ship, but imagining the drowning crew of the airship was terrible.

The three girls were sobbing, and calling Huey's name.

"He... he couldn't..." said Louie.

"H...Huey..." said Dewey.

Their eyes were wide in shock, looking up towards the spot on the stripped zeppelin where the Jet had crashed and exploded, until the whole skeletal thing sunk out of sight.

After a moment of stunned silence, The Commodore spoke, "Fool."

"Say that again!" Screamed Louie, grabbing the Commodore's fancy coat, "He's not the only one with anger management issues, you know."

"Such common reactions. He has given his life for mine, and I think him for that, yes? But there was certainly a better way."

"Shut up, Commodore," said Dewey, darkly, his right-hand trigger finger twitching unconsciously.

"For example, what about the Parachute?" The Commodore allowed two of his goons to pull Louie roughly off of his jacket, "He did not deploy it, yes? That could have..."

"...Saved my life?" said a voice from the radio, still breathing hard in anger.

"HUEY!" everyone yelled, crowding around the receiver of the radio, trampling the commodore underfoot, before all talking at once.

"Quiet everyone," he said, and they were silent, "I'm coming in, and I need to do something to feel better. Come to the mouth of the vulture and make sure I land safely."

With uplifted spirits, the group ran over as close to the open hangar as they could and lo-and-behold, saw the orange and blue colored SIL parachute holding up the duck, who had his arms crossed. They cheered as the Commodore walked up.

Huey caught sight of the group then, and began to clench his fists. His face was still a mask of rage, the dogfight with an entire air force platoon not enough to sate his need. As he got closer, those who beheld him began to feel a bit like taking a few steps back.

As Huey was about a yard from the ground, he disengaged the parachute and began to fall. He drew back his fist as he flew to the group. The SIL Men, figuring him to go for the Commodore, pushed him out of the way.

With a final scream, Huey fell towards the ground.

POW!

With a single punch, Louie was laid out flat on the ground and skidded over the floor. Dazed, he rubbed his face and groaned, not understanding for a moment what had happened. It wasn't until he was picked up bodily by Huey that he remembered the events of two seconds ago.

"H... Hu..."

"Paul isn't dead! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of! Understand?"

"Y... Yeah..."

Louie was then dropped unceremoniously on the ground. The Commodore, still buried under a small pile of protective sky-sailors, began to rail at him.

"Where do you get off? I did not give permission to fly off like that! If you hadn't shot down the Red Thunder I would have you under a court martial right now! I would be breaking you under my knee right now, yes no?"

Huey breathed out, his blood pressure returning to normal. He turned towards the commodore, saying, "You're welcome," before walking back upstairs to his quarters.

There was a long silence, before the three girls gave a shout of joy and followed Huey off towards the upper decks. Dewey blinked, before shrugging and beginning to make conversation with the Commodore, now waving the overzealous crewmen off of himself.

"Well now, Commodore. What was that all about?"

"You three taking your sibling rivalry so seriously. Sheesh."

"No, no. I mean the Thembrians. What was that?"

"That, Mr. Duck," began the Commodore, looking at the blue clad Duck with eyes full of a dull hopelessness, "Was an act of world war, and you appear to be right in the middle of it."


	21. Episode 21

Episode 21:

In 1951, years after the Sky Pirate menace had long since disappeared from the air over the Indies and Caribbean, the Pirate hideout was discovered, or, perhaps, simply revealed, by a young pilot and adventurer based in Cape Suzette named Kit Cloudkicker. Soon after, the UN, in the process of forming a new international police organization for squelching world-wide crime, claimed the small volcanic island off the coast of Africa as a neutral territory and set up the secret headquarters of the Sky Inspection League, set up to police the problem of smuggling and piracy that still plagued the region.

Carved out of a Volcanic mountain and with enough space to store a small army, the island, still referred to as "Pirate Island" even when formally renamed after the Director of S.H.U.S.H at the time as "Hooter Isle," was a perfect place to police the corrupt Asiatic skies.

It was hot inside, the fire within the earth felt plainly through the thick natural stone walls, with added structural supports and safety railing added only later, after a few unfortunate lava-pool-related fatalities were reported.

As the Sea Duck was towed out of the Iron Vulture and into the small Lagoon used as a dock, The boys watched from a few empty seats near a guardhouse beside the lagoon at all of the people.

They ran around, exclaiming to one another, whispering rumors and half-remembered truths. Almost as soon as the Vulture had landed, the surviving crew had spread the story of the attack by Thembria, and was answered by murmurs of war. Dewey shrank back in his seat slightly as more than one accusatory eye came his way.

"World War Three," said Louie in civilian garb, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked off across the lagoon to the patch of sky he could see through the far-off opening, "It's really coming. World War Three."

"That's what they said," noted Dewey, "Thembria are allied with the USSR, who are allied with China, North Korea, North Vietnam, East Germany and whatever other communist nations I'm forgetting. Thembria has picked a fight with the SIL which is an arm of S.H.U.S.H, which, although a neutral peacekeeping organization, is essentially American."

"With how much the Russians and Americans seem to like throwing around how many bombs they have, I wouldn't be surprised if we're all glowing in a half a year," said Huey, bitterly.

Louie shivered, "You think they would really do it? Bombs?"

"Honestly, I think the US will probably give it to them first, but we won't know until it happens."

"Where's your patriotism, Huey? It'll be the Russians who'll do it, I just know it."

"It flew out the door once we started this war with 'nam." He gave a sidelong glance to Louie. "I would think you and I would see closer on this sort of thing, considering..."

"Considering what?"

"Well, you always seemed to be the... I dunno... Rebellious one. At least where Uncle Scrooge was concerned." Huey leaned back, thankful for the shift in subject. "Spending money like water and going in for total selflessness and all that. Scrooge would have turned over in his grave if he heard about your adventures in Saint Canard."

Dewey spoke up, "Uncle Scrooge was only one of our guardians, if you'll remember, Huey, and even then only for a few years." His eyes swiveled over as he scratched his cheeks which had grown some serious whiskers since that fateful day in Duckburg. "When you think about Uncle Donald, Louie was absolutely devoted to him."

Huey frowned and turned away. "I suppose that's right."

"Listen," Louie said suddenly, turning his face from one brother to the other, "It's not like I'm pro-war or anything. It just scares the shit out of me, y'know." He smiled, but with a note of a sigh, "You never know when us Superheroes are going to get called in by S.H.U.S.H to go... I dunno... help out behind enemy lines. Who knows? Someday I might be like Super Snooper and go punch out Hitler. Or in this case Stalin, I guess. Maybe a little patriotism is what we heroes need just to do our jobs."

"I don't like it."

"You're allowed not to like it. That's the cool thing about the stupid country."

Dewey was back to watching the crewmen walk back and forth. "I suppose with all the commotion, there's no hope for the investigation into Farid to go through. With any luck they'll just forget all about us." He sighed. "Of course that just leaves us right back where we started."

"It can't end here," said Louie, resolute, "It just can't."

"And if it does?" asked Huey.

"I won't let it. These hands could potentially be punching out Stalin in a few years, so some punk wannabe kingpin should be no problem."

"You say that now..." smirked out Huey, "But how tough could you be if some fifty year old duck put you in a stretcher for two weeks?"

"Ha-ha."

***

"Here you go, Doofus," said Webby as she unwrapped the bandages from around the formerly stricken shoulder, "You're well enough to move, I think."

Doofus sat up, placing a hand to his shoulder and moving it experimentally, working out the stiffness from not moving it for so long. The small sick-bay they sat in was brightly lit and sterile, and had a comfortable air conditioning system that protected the infirm from the heat of the cave it was located in.

Doofus smiled sheepishly. "Thanks Webby. You're a lifesaver."

"It's just my job here, I guess. Team nurse, team den mother, teacher, shoulder to cry on. You know. Usual stuff for the token girl on these kinds of adventures."

Dewey's spectacled face homed in on Webby suddenly, their strong gaze burning a hole in her soul. "Why do you let Dewey jerk you around like he does, Webby? It can't be good for you. It makes me so sad to see..."

"It's not as bad as all that, Doofus. He's my boss, and I'll stick by him." she laughed. "I haven't been paid yet anyway. I have to stick by him until then at least."

"Don't joke about that, Webby. He's... he's not good for you."

Doofus's hand flew over to lay itself over Webby's resting on the hard hospital bed. Webby stood suddenly, jerking her arm away.

"Don't do this, Doofus. We... We both decided we weren't right for one another a long time ago. Don't reopen old wounds."

"But Webby..." He began to stand. "...I know we grew apart. You had your career and I had... mine. I'm sorry. Both of our lives conspired to break us apart, but." He walked towards her, slowly. "But we've both changed. I don't have to hide who I am anymore, and you..."

"No. Doofus, stop! It wasn't just how... how unavailable you were. I know now why you were the way you were and that makes me feel better, but..."

"How is it any different from how Dewey is? He doesn't love you. He sees you as a tool for making money. You're just his secretary."

Webby rounded on Doofus and held up an admonishing finger, "Don't you dare, Doofus. Dewey is a good man and he is going through a lot right now. He can't be thinking about anything like that."

"But Webby..."

"Doofus. I'm warning you. Don't. Just don't. We had our chance together and you blew it. You broke my heart when you left..."

"For your own safety."

"I didn't know that at the time. Even though I know now I feel like... You could have told me."

"No... No I couldn't have. I couldn't have subjected you to..."

"What? I couldn't have taken the truth?" She shook her head, "Doofus, I grew up for a long time in McDuck Mansion. Even after the boys moved back in with Donald, Grammy and I stayed in the Mansion as staff. I was raised on adventure just as much as the Duck brothers were. I think I could have taken knowing why the man I used to love disappeared, and when he came back, grew so distant so suddenly. I would have understood."

"I... I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. It was all just so... so new and exciting. But I've changed. I know what I'm doing now. Mr. Crackshell is back, and I can stop all of those horrible things I did in Saint Canard." His hand was on her shoulder, gentle. "Please, Webby. Give me another chance."

They were silent for a long time, with Webby's shoulder feeling the warmth of her former love's hand on her shoulder. She felt the old stir she used to feel around Doofus. Her memories drifted back to before the disappearance, when he was just a normal boy, so different from the fantastic figures that surrounded her from day to day.

"No." She shrugged his hand off of her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Doofus. Maybe... Perhaps..." She began to walk out of the door, leaving Doofus in the sterile office, "Perhaps in another future."

She walked out, her arms twined around herself as she looked down, tracing the path of her feet along the ground. Doofus stayed in the room for a moment, before closing his eyes and sighing, sitting down at the doctor's table and burying his face in his hands.

***

A day went past, and then two, and finally three. War brewed over the horizon and there they were, right at the thick of it. The entire group was roundly ignored by most of the SIL, with only occasional friction between them and the Commodore, who still, on some level, believed that they did it, and this belief tore him apart inside.

With every day that passed, news from the outside got grimmer and grimmer. USSR and US peace talks were breaking down left and right, and it seemed that Thembria's attack would not go unpunished. For its part, the country remained unapologetic, although rumors of them starting the war to seek some occult amulet were popular, if disbelieved, bits of apocryphal wisdom, at least to those without knowledge of the ultimate goal of their former state sorceress.

Dewey was hunched over at a long table the group used as a sort of meeting place away from the prying eyes of the SIL. The room was adjacent to the hastily put together sleeping quarters they had been given, which were much less nice than the ones aboard the Iron Vulture. On the other end of the table, Huey and the girls were chatting low, teaching and learning bits of each other's languages, while Louie discussed the Superhero trade with Doofus. Webby sat at Dewey's side, reading the only thing she could, a silly romance novel that had been donated by the Iron Vulture's crew for her use.

From a small stack of the past few day's newspapers delivered from Bombay, Dewey was reading an article in an Indian newspaper, using his knowledge of the Hindi language to keep tabs on the business dealings of McDuck Enterprises. To his annoyance, stock prices under Farid Kagan were rising, even as he delivered some truly baffling changes to the structure of the company.

Several industries that were formerly the very center of McDuck's revenue base, for example, Mining, Banking, Agriculture, and others, were being closed out, or reduced.

"I don't get it." Said Dewey out loud, wrinkling his forehead at the latest news from yesterday's paper, "I just don't get it. What is he planning to do?"

Webby looked up from her novel, finding conversation potentially more interesting, "More news from the front?"

"Farid's just closed down several factories for automobile parts. He's literally robbing people of their jobs, but he's such a slick talker he's getting away with it. I can't see the profit in it."

Louie spoke up, his conversation with Doofus having come to a bit of a snag regarding the correct procedure for chasing down a mugger, "Maybe he's got a backup plan. Close down some factories, open them up later to big ole' fanfare or something."

"Maybe they weren't up to code," posited Webby, "You know how Uncle Scrooge would cut corners."

"Or maybe..." began Dewey, before shaking his head, "I wish we could actually do something. I feel so useless here."

"We all do, Dewey," said Doofus who was itching to put on the suit, but couldn't risk being seen by the SIL.

"No kidding," said Louie, "What I wouldn't give to just fly in there and bust some heads."

"It would never work," answered Dewey, shaking his head as he turned the page, moving from the business section into the arts, and throwing the paper onto the table, "It wouldn't accomplish anything but making us look more suspect."

"I know. But it would make me feel better. Right Huey?"

"¡Foda Sim!"

The girls nodded their heads in triumph.

"Maybe it will say something in today's paper," said Webby, reasonably. She reached into the stack and pulled out the new news, opening it right to the business section with a practiced unconscious motion, before passing it over to Dewey and looking back down to her book.

Webby's heart skipped a beat when he heard her boss say "Thank you."

"Y- you're welcome, Dewey."

Dewey was too engrossed in the business section to hear her however, and began reading the fascinating writing of the Hindi language. In a moment, everyone went back to their individual conversations and tasks.

Suddenly, Dewey slammed the paper down on the ground, "That double-crossing son of a bitch!"

"What's wrong?" said Webby, startled away from Lady Argyle receiving a ripped bodice from Duke Iverson of Glen, disguised as the pirate and robber-baron Gregor the Cut-throat, who was at this moment on his way to claim the Lady as his own forced bride.

"That... That bastard! He... He wouldn't!" Dewey quickly took the paper back up and re-read the passage, before, throwing the paper towards the wall with a growl.

"What? What? What?" yelled Louie, "Don't leave us in suspense!"

"He... The factories he closed down... All of those mines and industries..." Dewey stood quickly, causing his chair to clatter to the floor, "He...!" He turned away, beginning to pace.

"What did he do?"

"Weapons manufacturing! Bombs! Guns! Battleships! He's shifting McDuck Enterprises to a pure weapons manufacturer. He's... he's closing down all other non-essential wartime industries to focus on weapons."

"My god," said Huey.

"This... this is..." Suddenly, a light came on behind Dewey's eyes. He ceased the nervous pacing he had taken up and looked up at the wall, a terrible expression lighting up his face. A cruel mixture of fear and loathing and anger all coming together to form an evil concoction upon his face. His eyes were wide and wild, his mouth bent down at a brutal angle, and his forehead creased as his brows rose up to meet the heavens. His body went rigid and his hands flexed outwards, keeping that position for as long as he held the face that had come of his greatest betrayal. "This was his plan all along."

Huey stood quietly, saying, slowly, "What do you mean?"

Dewey snapped at Huey, "I mean, Huey, that Farid planned this, all of it. The siege on Duckburg was his plot to take over the company, using us to tie up the SIL and S.H.U.S.H so they wouldn't catch wise of the plot. He used Gizmoduck to lock down the superhero contingent in Saint Canard so they couldn't raise a finger to stop him even if they did figure him out. I'll bet..." He grunted and turned, leaning on the wall with one elbow and looking with his tortured expression down towards the ground, "...I'll bet he's somehow behind this new war as well. He used you, Huey, and Higher-for-hire to get us mixed up with the Thembrians when they attacked. He must have heard about Magica's need for that dime, and knew I never gave it up, so he threw us together, and counted on... on war. If we lost the dime they would declare war on the world and he wins. If we kept the dime they would tear the world apart trying to get it, and he wins!"

"Why would he do all that?" called Doofus, his hackles raising at the thought of being used to such an end, "What possible reason..."

Dewey laughed, a horrible, sardonic noise that resonated with all of them, "Money! Money! Money money money! World War Three is declared, he uses McDuck Enterprises to sell the Allies guns, rockets, bombs, and makes a killing. He turns around, and uses Khan Industries to sell the Soviets guns, rockets, bombs... He uses our birthright to fleece both sides of the conflict!"

Everyone looked at Dewey, shocked. Louie stood up slowly.

"My... my god. We've got to stop him!"

"Louie's right," said Doofus, standing up gallantly, "Starting a war to make money. That's diabolical!"

"But what can we do?" said Webby, who stood as well, "We can't just go in and..."

"But we must," Said Dewey, cutting her off, "We can't fight him the way we have been. We need desperate measures. He's covered his tracks too well. Governments are eating out of his hand and the population is on his side thanks to the sympathy vote from taking over McDuck when we were implicated in the raid on Duckburg. S.H.U.S.H is too busy preparing for WWIII to do anything about him. We can't expose him. We have to stop him."

Louie's face had begun to smile a bit, "You mean it?"

Dewey nodded, "By force."

"The SIL," said Webby, her heart saying 'yes yes!' but her mind saying 'be careful,' "They'll never let us go."

"Who needs their permission?" smirked out Huey, his fist finding purchase in the palm of his hand.

***

Two SIL crewmen were rushing by the door to the conference room the guests were using when they heard two unfortunate words.

"Blathering Blatherskite!"

Soon enough, the entire wall blew open as rockets, fists, giant hammers, and various chainsaws and power tools sliced and knocked away. The crewmen tried to run, but were buried under the rubble from the near instantaneous explosion of plaster and iron. Soon, a small stampede of footsteps echoed through the hall as the group ran out. The Carioca girls, carrying the meager luggage of the small crew, crowded up behind Huey who ran joyously through the hall. Doofus, in his armor, lead the charge along with Louie, in full costume including drawn-on mask. Dewey pounded along the hall at a secure clip, hand-in-hand with Webby, who carried a suitcase full of Dewey's few business papers and petty cash he insisted on bringing along.

Soon, a ringing alarm blared out, and the entire group was being chased from the halls, but with Gizmoduck's brute strength at the charge, and Louie's skill with ropes and bindings on backup, the group went completely unmolested as they ran towards the hangar, and beyond, the lagoon where the Sea Duck was being moored.

"Get them!" yelled a familiar voice, before a gunshot rang out, only to be deflected by a quick shield from Gizmoduck, "They are escaping!"

Huey looked over and saw the Commodore, jumping up and down from rage. He smiled inside as he ran.

They were soon in the wide cavern containing the Lagoon, and were on their way to the Sea Duck. Suddenly, however, there was a loud snapping noise and several of the lights went out.

There was a wild laughing as a strange figure came flying towards them. The red emergency lights came on just in time for the group to see the Commodore, brandishing his sword and swinging from an electrical wire. He slammed the wire against Gizmoduck, who began to vibrate as the sizzling energy shorted out his suit.

"R-R-R-R-R-Run!" Said Doofus, pointing towards the Sea Duck.

"Gizmoduck!" cried Webby, before she was jerked on by Dewey.

Louie complied, herding the rest of the group on, taking up the bulk of the defense of the group. Soon, Dewey, Webby, and the girls had ran up the back ramp of the Sea Duck. Louie followed them up and did a quick head count, before exclaiming, "Where's Huey?"

All eyes pointed out over an encroaching crowd of SIL, where Huey had tarried by the stunned Gizmoduck, and was squaring off against Perry Kid, a sword in his hand.

"That idiot!" cried Louie, before it became apparent that the approaching SIL crewmen would keep him and the others too busy to go collect his brother. The crack of Scrooge's musket resounded, and the firefight inside the Sea Duck had begun, with the girls ducking inside the Pilot's cabin to keep themselves safe from stray bullets.

***

Back over towards where Gizmoduck lay, stunned, Huey and the Commodore squared off towards each other, Huey keeping one nervous eye towards the Sea Duck, which was being swarmed by SIL.

"Pay attention to your opponent when you fight him!" cried the Commodore," You insult me!"

"Of heaven forefend I insult you, Junior."

"Your friends are probably already dead now. I knew you weren't to be trusted. The Guilty always run."

"Everyone runs, Junior, if they're being chased."

"Because everyone is guilty, perhaps?"

"Because it's better than being caught."

"You and your brothers have been the thorn in my side long enough, yes no? I am glad to finally be rid of you. To attack in the midst of war..."

"Because of the war, Junior. We've got to stop it!"

"Preposterous. You have no chance to stop it. You're just three men and some women, how could you...?"

"We'll find a way. We'll find some way to stop Farid Kagan... You could help us..."

"This is not how things are done!" screamed the Commodore at the top of his voice, "You do not escape from me! It cannot be for something so noble, swine!"

"Fine, Be that way. Looks like the tides may be turning my way after all." His eyes looked off to the side briefly.

The Commodore followed his gaze, and saw the crowd of SIL suddenly thinning out, with a single black and yellow blur jumping and punching through the crowd, too fast or heavily armored for the men to get a bead on with their guns. PK took down the crowd, helped, soon, by The Green Phantom and Dewey Duck.

"No! No! I cannot be defeated by the likes of you! Enemies of Justice and right!"

"Junior, quiet. You've lost."

"You insist on calling me Junior, because your mentor calls me Junior. Do you know why they call me Junior, do you?" He began to sweat, this confrontation not going as planned, "They say I am the son of Don Karnage, the pirate. They say my whore of a mother conceived of me as he visited and pillaged a Spanish village, his home town. THEY ARE WRONG!" He screamed, brandishing his sword as his speech became more and more unhinged, "A man who would sack his own home town could never be a father to me, who loves Justice and right! The Law is my father, and fair Justice is my mother, and I am it's proud servant! You are an enemy to that end, and for that I will strike you down! Put up your sword, yes?"

Huey looked at the Commodore's sweating, wild-eyed face with a cold smirk, before he dropped the sword to the ground, dropping down into the accepted position of fisticuffs.

"A-ha. You are different. You follow your blood like a sheep. Your anger-addled Uncle has given you a dishonorable preference of combat."

"honor or not. I'm still kicking your ass."

Screaming, the two men came at each other. Kid struck first, swiping his sword. Huey dodged to the right and fired a punch, which struck kid's ribs, but allowed him to try a stab with his cutlass. Circling round, Huey strafed out of the way, peppering the wild, angry man with punches, before finally laying a kick squarely into his ankle. The Commodore cried out, going down to one knee, and trying a wild slice, his mannered, rigid style bedazzled by rules and regulations going out the window in the face of Huey's fists made hard by visits to cities around the globe before he settled in Cape Suzette. He punched, Face, shoulder, face, stomach, each time his face taking on a little bit more of the joy of the fight, and the enthusiasm that comes from knowing he's fighting someone with a measure of skill and still winning.

Finally, The Commodore stood and gave a bellow, letting everything he hated about Huey come out through his voice. His nose began to gush blood into his perfectly white teeth, as he slashed down.

Huey stepped backwards, used to fighting men addled by rage, and waited until the sword was once again raised to the familiar fencing position. He then gave a strong right cross, and aimed for the broad side of the sword.

Snap! Huey punched the sword, and the blade snapped in half near the base from the sheer force of his strike, tested against the steel grip of Perry Kid.

Deprived of a useful weapon, the Commodore dropped the hopeless hilt of the former sword, and raised his own hands to defend himself, before he was struck out with an uppercut to the jaw. He landed a few feet back, and struggled to stay awake, but unconsciousness overtook him all the same.

By this time, Gizmoduck's systems had rebooted, and he was getting up, "What... What happened?"

"Nothing much," said Huey, "Come on!"

The two ran on towards the crowd of SIL, who were dispersing, scared off by the loss of their leader, as well as from the demon who fights them so harshly.

***

Huey and Gizmoduck ran in, Huey with a big ole smile on his face. His brothers called their frantic salutations to him, but his face was focused on PK, who was finishing up one last SIL goon. It may have been the angle of the punch, or perhaps the stance he displayed while throwing it, but somehow, Huey felt that PK, at this moment, was a familiar, comforting presence, especially considering how similar the way he took care of the goon was to the way he just took care of Junior.

He was mesmerized by PK suddenly, his shape matching up with his memories, calling up someone, One of the most influential people to his personality, and he felt a strange mixture of joy and disgust. He finally knew who PK was, and he couldn't help but feel elated by the knowledge.

"Hey, Huey," said a voice, breaking out of his reverie. Suddenly the rest of the cargo hold registered. The back had been closed and everyone had gathered together around him.

"Wha?"

"Get your ass in gear, Kid," said PK, "You've got a plane to fly."

Looking directly into PK's single eye, he blinked, before giving him a giant shit-eating grin. "Groovy."

***

The Sea Duck was soon winding its way through the lagoon, towards the exit. The parcel of sky getting larger and larger as Huey approached it, until it filled the vision beyond the windshield of the plane. Soon, with a bounce, the plane was in the air and the group was off to face their final foe.


	22. Episode 22

Episode 22:

The sun had come up over the Bombay horizon but one half-hour before, and the haze of night still clung to the city like a jacket. The clear sky and the spectacular rising of the sun had gone unnoticed and unheeded by the occupant of the top floor penthouse office of the Khan building. He was not especially pleased or displeased with any of the news that had come to his office about everything that had occurred. The investigations into his affairs. The war that had blocked that investigation. The SIL's custodial responsibility over the Duck family keeping them out of his hair. It was simply news and interesting tidbits to add to the pile. The business plan had already gone through, after all, and would soon start to effect the bottom line.

He took a bran muffin from a small bag on his desk. He peeled off the paper film surrounding the rutted edge of the stump, and licked it, his rough tongue stripping bits of the pastry that had stuck to the paper off and into his mouth. He then discarded the film in a small wastebasket by his desk without really thinking about it, before reaching for a formerly warm cup of tea which had been left on his desk slightly too soon. It was still enjoyable; one sugar, lots of milk; but it could have done with a little more heat. If it happened like that again, he would have words with the woman outside.

He drank and ate in silence, allowing himself the briefest of indulgences before he dived into the meat of the day's activities. The official declaration was supposed to be announced later today, the papers had predicted, and he had to be ready for McDuck Enterprises to receive the various orders for weapons for every army in the world. Such things will be time consuming, therefore he needed his strength.

He popped the last of the muffin into his mouth. It was quite good, from a little privately-owned store around the corner from the Khan building. He enjoyed the irony of it.

Sipping down the last of his tea, he began to look over the work he had left the night before, as well as the work that had piled up over the night. He found, at the top of the stack, an envelope unmarked. He smiled and reached into a drawer, pulling out a pair of steel pliers, before picking up the blank, unmarked envelope, and clicking a small, hidden button under his desk. A hole opened up near his wastebasket, which he dropped the letter down, letting it flutter into the dark, before calling his receptionist.

"I've sent a blank letter down the chute," he said in Hindi, "Have it diffused and traced, and have whoever sent it killed."

He cut the connection from the receptionist's office and took a final sip of tea. It was good tea, he had to admit, even if it was a bit on the cold side.

The large, plate glass window behind him and slightly to the left suddenly exploded into the room showering glass all over the carpet. His head whipped around as he ducked to the right, just avoiding catching a small, red two-seater convertible with the back of his neck, and a lot of broken shards of glass besides. He fell to the floor and crawled away from the still settling wreckage that was being made of his office by the car. He cleared the desk just as the front fender clipped the corner and caused the whole great oak thing to spin around, nearly missing striking him in the leg as he crawled towards the bookcase. Once there, he tapped a hidden button to call for security.

While still hunched over on the floor, he then proceeded to pull book after book out of the bookcase, before he found what he was looking for, a copy of a motivational book called "Your greatest attributes," which he opened to reveal a hollowed out chamber with a revolver inside. He grasped the gun and pointed towards the wreckage which had finally crashed into the far wall, not quite hard enough to break through the thick wood paneling. He then pointed towards the now open window, where a small parade of ducks was entering in from the nose of a purple, duck-shaped plane that hovered in the air near the window.

He fired the gun once towards the first hint of blue he saw, Dewey Duck, but the bullet was quickly deflected by Gizmoduck, stepping in front of the bullet.

The Steel duck bore down on him quickly, and he prepared to fire again, aiming for the duck's uncovered mouth and neck. The gun was knocked out of his hand by a large boxing glove that struck the silver firearm. However, the door to Farid's office opened and a crowd of Beagle boys dressed as security guards poured in.

"C'mon Gizmo!" yelled Darkwing Duck, jumping into the room from the Thunderquack, firing arrow after arrow at the swarming beagles. The Green Phantom, wielding a long, leather whip, managed to hold off and disarm the Beagles, while Darkwing knocked them out with sleepy arrows. Gizmoduck turned away from Farid Kagan to join the fight, succeeding in pushing the security guards out of he office and into the reception area.

Suddenly safe, Farid began to crawl towards the downed revolver, and had almost reached it when the sound of a cocking musket made itself apparent.

"Stop it Farid," said Dewey duck, coolly, holding the gun squarely at Farid Kagan's impassive face, and flanked by Huey and PK like two muscled bouncers. "No more getting your way. For now, we chat."

***

Out in the hall, Gizmo, GP, and DW were making quick work of the Beagle boys. The artless thieves and cutpurses were unused to fighting superheroes in any case, and fighting three at once was nearly impossible.

The Green Phantom laughed gaily as he hit his stride, the long whip he wielded at once a lash, a bind, and a long prehensile limb. To one Beagle about to fire a gun he gave a quick flip of his wrists and a red, bloody gash appeared on the sensitive skin on the back of his hand, causing him to drop the gun in surprise. To another, he flipped the leather cord around, wrapping it up around a beagle's head and pulling sharply, causing the man to fall into a group of his allies, scattering them like tenpins. Swipe, whip, spin, the new cape he had procured before the adventure whirled around him, obscuring his form from bullets wanting for purchase in flesh, and causing the dancing whip to become even more deadly unpredictable.

Gizmoduck was much more direct. Boxing gloves to KO incoming beagles. Rockets to scatter large groups. Oil slicks or marbles to trip up pursuers. The Steel duck's power was nearly unlimited as he destroyed wide swaths of enemies, leaving stragglers desperate to escape his wrath to flee, and fall within the range of one of his two allies.

Darkwing did not move so much, preferring to hang back, covered quite well by the two boys fighting gallantly and flamboyantly. She stayed behind and fired her bow upon the encroaching dogs with a near endless supply of arrows dipped in chlorophorm. At her behest, many Beagle boys simply died away, and some, carelessly shot through the heart or head, simply died.

Eventually, the three of them had finished off the last of the troops. However...

Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta! Machine gun noises, thankfully from a terrible shot, caused The Phantom and Darkwing to dive behind Gizmoduck. Gizmo extended a body-length shield, with a convenient eyehole, through which he saw Ballast beagle, fat and stupid, firing blindly upon the room, hitting his downed allies more often than he hit the Duck's shield, and the walls more often than both. Thinking fast, The Green Phantom pulled an arrow from Darkwing's quiver, ignoring her silent protest, before breaking off the tip and placing it in a sling recovered from his utility belt. Counting his blessings, he reached around the shield, swinging the bulbous head of the arrow towards the Gun-toting Beagle boy.

The bulb flew through the air as if in slow motion, before, by chance, it was struck out of the air by a bullet. Ballast, who was laughing like a baby with a bundle of noisy keys, caught the full brunt of the explosion of Darkwing's explosive-tipped arrows with his face and chest, his lower regions rendered safe by the bulky gun. His upper regions, however, were blown clear off, the red meat of his cheeks and chest revealed in a moment of terrible heat and fire as the firing slowed down and suddenly stopped. With his eyes ripped open, never to close again, he fell forward to the floor, gun first, dying propped up by the giant heavy weapon with a grotesque childish rictus painted on his face.

"Ballast!" cried a voice behind, as Braincase Beagle reached around the corpse of his fat brother and fired wildly with his small pistol, which was much more accurate than the huge gun from before. "I'll kill you."

However, Gizmoduck, covered by his shield, was able to roll towards Braincase. A huge, white-gloved hand popped out of Gismo's chest and grasped the Beagle by the head, picking him up bodily. The gun dropped to the floor, clattering as it knocked against the hard floor. With a whip-crack, the Beagle was tossed casually against the wall, knocked out by the concussion, before falling upon a pile of bodies of his brothers.

The three heroes gathered in the center of the room, surrounded by the grisly fruits of their efforts. Darkwing knocked an arrow, Green Phantom readied his whip, and Gizmo's hand hovered over his gizmo.

"Going up!" Yelled a voice from up above, before a rope, tied in a noose, came down to encircle Darkwing's throat. She was lifted suddenly, her cry cut off in mid-choke, and disappeared up above through a hole in the stucco ceiling.

"Goz!" cried The Green Phantom as he rushed forward to grab her, before stopping, realizing that would strangle her faster.

GP and Gizmo stood, dumbfounded, as they heard laughing and scuffling up above. A mad cackle, that seemed to drip with sweat and oil, and took on a tone of impure intentions. The sounds of the scuffle took on a lecherous tone as the rustle of clothes replaced the laugh. Gizmo was about to aim a gizmo up above, when the sound suddenly stopped.

Crash! Through the thin ceiling material a body came down. It was Boner Beagle, half-undressed, pants unbuttoned, with his arousal plain to see, standing as erect as the arrow which had been thrust into him, creating a bloody wound right through his right eye and into his brain. He twitched pathetically, going soft in his death rattle, before he breathed out and was silenced.

Soon after, Darkwing jumped down from the crawlspace above the ceiling, landing atop the dead man's chest, certainly cracking a still-warm rib. She was breathing hard, and had blood on her purple glove and the noose still around her neck.

Louie ran up to her, pulling the noose away from over her head, and reached down to kiss her roughly. She protested for a moment, she had nearly been raped after all, this did not seem an appropriate time for romance, but the moment overtook her, and she embraced the Green clad hero tightly, letting her beak mesh with his, fireworks going off behind her eyes, either from the kiss or from the temporary loss of oxygen.

Soon, they broke apart, and noticed that Gizmoduck had politely looked away. They looked back to each other and blushed, before they all three rushed back towards the office to give the all clear.

***

Meanwhile.

"It's over Farid. We know all about the plan," Said Dewey, his eyes hot coals of hate aiming down the sight of the McDuck musket.

"Of course you do," said Farid, the sounds of the rumpus out in the hall not going at all positively for him, "what do you know, pray tell? Merely good business sense put to work. You said yourself that a business is merely a machine to make more money."

"But it's a fair machine, Farid. It's driven by the needs of people on the consumer end, and the profit comes from the guy who can provide the best products."

"Men like us create markets for things all the time."

"Not for war. Not to trade people's lives for profit, Farid. What you're doing..."

"What I'm doing would have made your Uncle proud."

"...It would have made him sick to his stomach, Farid Kagan. He would never stoop to what you did." Dewey looked down over his beak at Farid Kagan, who was slowly standing from his place on the ground. "You started a war for the express purpose to... to what? To make for a better profit margin? McDuck Enterprises was doing just fine before you decided to screw with it!"

"I must admit..." began Farid, as he stood, getting his dignity back as he brushed himself off, "There is a bit more to it than that."

Dewey's gun followed, and it was clear he was waiting for the tiger to give his reasons.

"Imagine, you were the nephew of a great man. Not so hard. Imagine that that great man's company, that he built from the ground up with his own blood and sweat was bought out by someone else, apparently a greater man, and was made a peon, a lowly executive while the CEO who stole his seat sat up on an ivory tower somewhere in the United States, with so much money that he could swim in it."

"So you took over McDuck Enterprises for revenge? You laid siege to Duckburg for revenge? You started a war between the US and Soviet Union... A war that could spiral out of control into nuclear holocaust... for revenge?"

"That's only part of it," said Farid, adjusting his tie, "Getting back at McDuck is strictly beside the point. Mostly it was to do what my own uncle taught me. To seek the bottom line. At all costs." As he stood, Farid crossed his arms. "So what now? Are you going to shoot me? Beat me up? They'll still label you a terrorist and I a martyr. I don't see what the point is to this little visit, Mr. Duck. I've already won."

"Not where I'm standing," said Huey, as he reached within his jacket and pulled out a small recording device, courtesy of Gearloose Magazine's 'Moonlight Vigilante' line. He switched off the running recorder. "Courtesy of one Green Phantom."

The play button was pushed, and Farid's voice mocked back at him, "...don't see what the point is to this little visit, Mr. Duck. I've already won."

Farid's eyes went wide. He backed up into the bookshelf, "N-no! You..."

"You lose, Farid," said Dewey, "Now are you going to come with us to S.H.U.S.H HQ quietly?"

"I think not."

Another hidden button was pressed, and the bookshelf he leaned on twisted around quickly revealing nothing but the bookcase, with no Farid anywhere in sight. Dewey swore loudly and rushed forward, pressing the same button to follow Farid just as the three superheroes ran back into the office.

"Dewey!" cried PK, slipping in just as the Bookcase swiveled closed, jamming itself on a book that had fallen from the shelf and wedged between the book case and frame, unable to be opened by the others.

***

The emergency roof access door burst open as Farid Kagan ran at top speed across the wide helipad towards the private helicopter he kept on the roof. As he neared the vessel, he could hear the door open again and cursed loudly.

"Farid!" cried Dewey, running after the tiger, musket in hand.

Farid made it to the helicopter and reached inside. A pistol found its way into his hands, firing its payload towards the duck with a loud snap, which Dewey was able to dive away from just in time. On his stomach then, Dewey took aim with his musket and fired.

CRACK went the gun, and in a terrible instantaneous moment, the gun in Farid's hand, as well as the hand itself, had simply disappeared. Blood spurted from Farid's wrist as he screamed, falling away from the helicopter, clenching his wrist hole closed to stymie the flow of blood.

Dewey stood and, still wielding the unarmed musket, ran up to Farid Kagan, who was struggling to his feet to get away from the Duck.

"Nobody!" Cried Dewey, as the butt of the musket found purchase on Farid's face.

"Fucks!" He continued, planting a foot in Farid, causing him to roll further away from the helicopter.

"With!" The butt of the gun was once again used.

"My!" Stomp! Dewey's webbed foot crushed against the man's chest.

"Family's!" A fist shot out cracking against the man's jaw.

"MONEY!" With this, the butt of the gun was once again applied to the man's face as he tried to stand to get away from the rage of the Duck family, combined with the pragmatism and vengefulness of the McDuck clan. The blow sent him tumbling backwards, landing with a thump on his back.

As Dewey approached, concussed blood dripping from the butt of the rifle, Farid's face looked around desperately for something to use. He saw, still clenched in his dead, detached hand, the gun. With his off hand, he pried the still pliable fingers off of the gun and snatched it up, pointing it towards the oncoming duck.

"Dewey!" cried a voice. "Look out!"

Farid, panicking, altered his shot towards the voice and fired.

Dewey turned. His eyes went wide as he saw PK standing near the doorway, frozen in an expression of surprise. As he was watched, he crumpled to the floor silently.

That something within Dewey stirred, and he couldn't help but run over as Farid lay dazed on the far edge of the rooftop. He knelt beside PK and rolled him over to face up to the sky, supporting his head.

"PK. Are you alright?"

"Get... Farid..."

"You're hurt. You need help."

"I'm not... I'm not important. It's you, you and your brothers, you're the future. I... I'm just an old... so-and-so..."

Not understanding the profound feelings within him, Dewey couldn't help but feel overcome by emotion as this masked man lay bleeding in his arms. Quickly, telling himself it's to give him much needed air, Dewey ripped away the mask to reveal the face behind. He gasped.

"U... Uncle Donald!" He cried.

The white, lined face of the duck, Donald Duck, were plain. A single eye, the other lost in some unknowable conflict since his disappearance was the only feature Dewey couldn't place on the otherwise painfully familiar face.

"I... I didn't want you to know..."

"Uncle Donald. You've been watching over us this whole time?"

"Yes... I wanted... I used Joe and Panchito... to tell me where you would be. I wanted to see..."

"Don't talk, Uncle Donald," insisted Dewey, taking off his jacket and laying it over the Duck's wound to stop the blood from flowing.

"You were..." He had begun to sweat, surprise at the sudden wound being taken over by pain, "You were always a good kid, Dewey. You... you all were. I'm glad... I'm glad Uncle Scrooge's legacy is..."

"Please, Uncle Donald. Shhh. You're too weak."

The roof access door opened yet again, and this time Huey and Louie appeared. Huey all but screamed as he saw Donald Duck stretched out, bullet in him, and ran over, kneeling.

"Uncle Donald! No!"

"Huey?"

A sudden, wracking sob tore the air, rending Dewey and Louie's souls to the core. Their brother, Huey, the strong, unbreakable pillar of the three Duck boys, had tears on his cheeks as he looked into the one-eyed face of Donald Duck.

"Don't die, Uncle Donald!" cried Huey, "Don't die! I couldn't go on! Don't leave us alone. Not again!"

Louie walked up and inspected the wound, "We need to get him downstairs, to a doctor. Where's Farid?"

Dewey looked over and saw that Farid was not where he had been left. He stood quickly and took up his musket.

"Take care of Uncle Donald," he said, as Louie's impassive face and Huey's tear-stained one looked up at him, "Get him somewhere safe. I've got unfinished business."

Without looking back to see his two brothers carefully move the injured, half-costumed PK down off the roof. Dewey crept along the room, cognizant of the fact that Farid, one-handed though he might be, still had a loaded gun.

He ran up to the Helicopter and used it as cover, finally giving himself the chance to pour the measure of powder into the musket, before tamping it down with the Ramrod, before loading the shot and once again giving it a tamp. Now armed, he once again began to creep along the roof, looking all around himself.

BANG! Went a shot behind him, near the edge of the roof. Farid Kagan was there, his handsome face marred and bloody from Dewey's working-over of him earlier. He fired again, and Dewey felt a pain in his leg.

He yelled and looked down. His leg had been struck, but it was only nicked. It was a flesh wound that he could still walk on. He did, walking with purpose towards Farid, whose face was contorted in a sudden expression of sublime fear.

BANG! A shot from the pistol missed. Dewey got closer.

BANG! The shot veered off course as Farid's hand shook uncontrollably.

"Get away from me!" Farid screamed, wanting so to steady the gun with both hands.

Saying nothing, Dewey merely raised his musket and fired.

Farid was struck. He looked down and saw the spreading blood staining his immaculate shirt, and knew in a moment that it was the end. He looked up at Dewey, his face cold and calculating, and in a wild flash of pure hate, found the strength, even without the ability to breathe fully, to raise his gun one more time and fire.

Dewey, for a moment, did not feel anything, and merely continued to walk towards Farid Kagan, unaware of any injury he had sustained.

"I...Impossible!" said Farid, in the emotion of a cry, but with only the ability of a whisper, "I... Impossible!"

With a single punch from Dewey Duck, Farid found himself flying, watching the still rising sun over the upside-down cityscape of Bombay grow down from above his vision, the sun seeming to set upwards behind the jagged outlines of the square towers. He found that he was screaming as he fell from the Khan Building, but no sound came out. Instead, blood was gushing from his windpipe, and he slowly blacked out, wondering idly why.

Back up on the roof. Dewey sighed. It was over at last. The recording would clear his name. Even if there was to be a war, it would get no help from Dewey Duck.

That's when the adrenaline wore off and the pain in his chest became apparent. Before five seconds of panicked realization had occurred, loss of blood and exhaustion caused Dewey duck to pass out, placing a hand over the gnarled hole that had been drilled directly over his heart.


	23. Episode 23

Episode 23:

Scrooge McDuck stood, young, healthy, strong, in tanned leather hides and with bandages wrapped 'round his webbed feet instead of shoes. He stood in the driving snow of the Yukon, saying nothing, just looking upon the sight he beheld. He held the Goose Egg nugget in his hands and held it up.

Two white-feathered hands appeared, and took the nugget from the man's hands. They were dressed in blue-accented khakis, topped with a pith helmet. He stood as he held the gift from his uncle, in the jungle of India, near the mountain range. As he stood, the giant gold nugget began to turn to dust in his hands, gold dust, and he smiled as the euphoria of discovery came upon him.

He looked up at his Uncle who was already disappearing over the horizon, off towards the pristine splendor of White Agony Creek, arm in arm with a gilt goddess with hair that was gold and jewels of gold and a dress that shone in the light like gold.

***

With a gasp, Dewey woke and tried to sit up. The pain in his chest, however, caused him to cry out, before he laid back, trying to will away the ache by staying perfectly still.

"Good. You're awake," said a familiar voice.

Dewey looked over and saw, in Sailor uniform, and with both eyes, although one was strangely inert, his Uncle Donald, who had bandages wrapped over his own stomach.

"Uncle Donald," Dewey said, his throat dry, "Wha-?"

"We're back in Duckburg. It's been two days since we were shot."

"Farid...?"

"Dead. S.H.U.S.H wasn't too pleased with that little stunt we pulled, but after hearing the recorded confession, well..."

"We're... They found us...?"

"Innocent. You've been reinstated as CEO of McDuck Enterprises, with apologies from the board of directors."

"But...?" Dewey's hand traveled up and hovered over his heart. He felt bandages underneath.

His head turned in response to a strange metallic clink. Donald had dropped on the hospital end-table a strange, gnarled metal object. It seemed to be a crumpled bullet, but flowered out strangely. It seemed almost to be comprised of two pieces.

"Th... the dime."

"Around your neck, yes. It caused the bullet to stop just short of your heart. If it hadn't been there the doctors said you would probably be dead."

Dewey looked towards the former number one dime, before looking up at the ceiling, breathing evenly. Memories from... was it really two days ago? Memories from then flooded back to him, and a feeling of triumph came over his face.

However. "The war. What about the war?"

"There is no war, Dewey."

"But... But Thembria..."

"...Has finally been absorbed into the Soviet Union. The Grand High Marshall was executed. Probably for trying to start Nuclear war over a magical dime. For the moment, we're safe, besides the conflict in Vietnam of course."

Dewey sighed, relieved. "I want a phone."

"No."

"No!?"

"No. Louie is acting CEO until you get better. I'm supposed to keep you honest."

"Louie! But... But...!"

"He's doing quite well so far, if you want to know. He reopened all the factories Farid closed, and aborted the plan for weapons manufacturing." Donald sat down at a chair by Dewey's bed. "Your goldmine has proved to be quite rich, by the way."

"My mine..." Dewey smiled, "My mine."

"And Uncle Scrooge's fortune is safe. All of your accounts have been unfrozen, and all the charges have been expunged. They even forgave Huey's draft dodging, though I think he's gotten to like life abroad."

Dewey nodded, "Good."

Donald seemed to look around, feeling a bit awkward after all those years away. "Well, uh. I should go. The docs say I should still be in bed like you." He began to walk out of the room.

"Wait. Uncle Donald."

He froze, before slowly turning around to face his nephew.

"Where did you go? You were gone for so long."

"There was..." Donald looked down, "There was an invasion. Aliens. Don't bother trying to make sense of it, you won't remember, but PK... I stopped it, but at the end I had spent so long behind the mask that I... it was difficult to give it up, see?"

"Are you going to settle down now?"

"I..."

Dewey's eyes were hard as he they swiveled to lock with Donald's. Donald's eye kept pace with Dewey's. Dewey then drew his gaze down to Donald's left hand, where a simple gold band still encircled the finger.

"Yes..." said Donald, once he saw the ring, "Yes, I think I'll settle down." He turned back towards the door and walked out without another word, but with the weight of the world finally off of his shoulders.

***

It was indeed one week later when Dewey and Donald Duck were released from the hospital. A crowd of people gathered around, taking photos of the pair, escorted by Dewey's two brothers and personal assistant. Dewey walked with a cane due to the injury in his leg sustained during the fight with Farid, and men in trench coats with tape recorders shouted at him for his story. His group wound their way through the crowd towards a long limousine. When Dewey caught sight of the long, opulent car, he gave a dirty look towards Louie.

Suddenly, A man vaulted through the crowd, firing off his camera wildly while asking a volley of questions; Where did they go? What were they doing? Is it true that McDuck Enterprises was going to sell weapons to the soviets.

A flashbulb was soon flying over the crowd, as the rest of the camera, minus a few parts, crashed to the floor with a shattering noise. Dewey then placed the cane back on the ground, with a small dent where the wood was nicked by the metal rim of the camera. He then ducked down and sat in the car, followed by the rest of his friends and family.

Louie was the last one in, and smiled brightly, waving his hat towards the crowd.

"Looks like Uncle Scrooge is back in town, boys!"

The crowd laughed as they jotted down Louie's; the witty brother's; jaunty little jab. He was the witty brother, the reader favorite who sold papers with a smile and an off-color remark, but Dewey was all business, and a businessman was exactly what McDuck Enterprises needed now.

***

The group was gathered on the docks, sitting and standing around the benches facing the water, where the Sea Duck was moored, repaired, refueled, and looking as good as the day she was first born.

Dewey and Webby sat in the middle, while Louie and Gosalyn, out of costume and still going by the name "Lorelei" around the Ducks, although she made no effort to hide her casual self, stood behind. Huey, with the three girls on either side of him and behind, sat on a second bench, while Doofus and Donald stood by.

"I suppose this is it," Said Huey, "That was the last party all together. From now on we're pretty much on our own."

"I don't suppose you could stay?" asked Webby.

"No. I gotta keep moving. I like working for Mr. Cloudkicker. Lets me go places, meet people."

Louie spoke up, "And we've got to be getting back to Saint Canard."

Goz placed a finger to her beak, "Hush-hush."

"And besides," continued Huey, "I've got to take these three lovely ladies back home."

They all gave sweet little sounds of disappointment, before Rosalina spoke, "Cannot we come with you Huey? We want to see the world."

Huey then began to sweat, "Well, girls, it's not like I don't want you to come with. It's just... your Uncle..."

"Tio Carioca agrees with us," said Maria, whose English was improving.

"He think we should be with you," said Amalia, whose English finally existed.

"But..." He said, clearly wanting them to stick around, but afraid of what would happen if that came to pass, "...I mean, I'm all for it, but... You know how... how much I like you... all three of you... and I don't know if your Uncle would approve if I didn't... er..."

"Choose one?"

"And stick..."

"...Weeth her?"

"Uh..." Huey blushed and let himself slouch in the bench, "Yeah."

There was a moment, where the three girls had frozen around the dejected Huey, before all three burst into merry laughter.

"Is THAT why you were so nervous around us Huey?"

"Because you thought you had to choose..."

"...Just one?"

"Y- uh... What?" Huey said, perking up.

"We though you just weren't into group sex is why you only slept with us one at a time," said Rosalina with an innocent smile, "Why did you not say something?"

But Huey could not say anything, the thoughts and feelings he was experiencing at the moment were indescribable. Head, heart, and loins burned at once. "You mean I get... all three of you?"

"Yes!" They said.

"All at once?"

"Yes!"

"And Joe approves?"

"As long as you never look at anyone but us..."

"...But then you would have to worry..."

"...About us more."

A rumble in Huey's throat began to grow, becoming a cry, before morphing into a shout of pure victory. He stood quickly, anxious to be on his way. He shook each of his brother's hands in turn.

"Well fellas, It's been great, But I gotta fly. Take care. Don't let him work you too hard Webby. Remember to eat a really expensive meal once in a while. Don't take any wooden nickels. I'm..."

He then reached for Donald's hand and froze.

"Goodbye, Huey," said Donald, simply, "I'm sorry I couldn't have been a better father."

Louie and Dewey looked at each other quickly, wondering what Huey would do. His face was an unreadable mask as he stood before his Uncle, with the three girls placing their worried hands over their mouths.

But suddenly, Huey's arms reached out, encircling Donald in a warm embrace. Donald stood for a minute, basking in the tightness, before his own arms came up and hugged back. When they broke apart, Huey looked to be a better man, more energetic, happier, ready to love and be loved. He reached for the girls hands, wishing idly that he had three hands. The leftover girl, Amalia, not content being left out, simply hiked up her skirt and hopped up onto the back of her new shared lover, and Huey laughed, taking her light weight as he and the girls walked up the ramp of the Sea Duck, laughing and loving and lusting all the way.

As the plane began to take off, Gosalyn smirked, "Think it'll last?"

"I think that is entirely beside the point, 'Lorelai,'" said Louie, "The very fact that it has happened will make him proud to be a man for the rest of his life." Louie then sighed theatrically, stretching his arms before placing a hand on his Brother's shoulder, "Well, Dewey. That's it for me. McDuck is all yours. I kept the seat warm for you, got your affairs in order, and tried to leave everything as close as it was to how you left it. Hope you're ready for a hard core pain in the ass."

"I think after all this vacation, a little drudgery will be just what I need."

"I thought so." He took Gosalyn's arm and began to walk away. "By the way, I gave fifteen thousand dollars to 'Books without borders.'"

"you WHAT!?"

"I kept the receipt this time. Don't worry. It's tax-deductible." He waved his hand lazily, "Ciao."

Gosalyn laughed, grabbing him by the waist. He flinched away a bit.

"What's wrong?" she whispered.

"Sorry," he whispered, not wanting to ruin his exit, "You're just still so young..."

"How old do you think I am?"

"I dunno... Seventeen?"

"Yeah, seventeen... When we FIRST met. That was over a year ago."

"Y-you mean...?"

Gosalyn nodded her head, with a smirk. Louie heaved a sigh of relief, turned her around and kissed her as passionately as he could muster. Used to outbursts like that, she let him, and even reciprocated.

"Idiot," she said as they disengaged and walked off, arm-in-arm, into the proverbial sunset.

"I should be going too, Dewey. Mr. Duck. W- Webby," said Doofus, wringing his hands, "Mr. Crackshell will be expecting me soon. I've got you-know-what to do tonight."

"Of course, Doofus," said Dewey, "As you were."

Doofus seemed poised to say something, He wanted so to take Webby with him, to make her his. He loved her so, he knew that now, and he regretted he had ever let her go. "Webby...?"

She looked up at him with a pleading look. A look that begged him not to say anything. Her arms encircled Dewey's as they both sat on the bench. In a terrible instant, Doofus knew that she was lost to him, and that for her to be truly happy, She needed Dewey, and not Doofus, in her life.

"Goodbye, Webby," he said finally, before turning and leaving.

After a moment of silence, where Dewey, Webby, and Donald all sat or stood by the dock, watching the Sea Duck begin is ascent and fly off over the horizon, Donald began to walk away.

"Uncle Donald?"

"I'm not saying goodbye," he called, "Not yet. I've got a wife to get home to. I'll probably be in the doghouse for this."

"Feel free to come back to the Money bin," Dewey called, "For your old job back. The position is still vacant."

"Is the pay any better?"

Dewey had a quick intake of breath, and had a few false starts, before Webby jumped in, "$5.00 an hour."

Dewey's head snapped to give her a look, "Ms. Vanderquack!"

"He's married, Dewey, thirty cents an hour isn't going to cut it."

Dewey grunted, before turning back to his uncle and saying, firmly, "Three dollars, and not a cent more, understand me?"

Donald smirked, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Welcome back, Dewey."

"Welcome Back, Uncle Donald."

The Duck walked on, finally content in the safety of Scrooge's legacy, towards the old house where he used to live with the little woman named Daisy who was sure to sock him square in the jaw before giving him the biggest kiss in the world for being away so long.

And so, Dewey and Webby sat, watching the sun slowly set over the horizon. The twilight air settled over them like a fog as the two bodies simply sat, feeling the other's presence through the contact of their arms.

After a moment, Webby said, "I have something to show you."

***

Blindfolded and pushed, Dewey stumbled forward through the halls of the money bin. He could tell where he was, as the smell of greenbacks still lingered there, but faded over time. He wondered what was up.

"Just a little more," Webby said, before she stopped and took off his blindfold. "Ta-da!" She was holding a long package.

"What's this?" said Dewey.

"A present, open it."

He looked up at her, slowly, before looking back down to the package. It was gaudily wrapped in holiday wrapping, each piece of which was tied with string so as to be entirely reusable. He smiled. She smiled. He began to open it, careful not to rip the wrapping too badly, and revealed a long box, which opened to reveal...

"A tie!"

"To replace the one that got ruined. I knew you weren't going to buy one yourself, so..."

"Oh. Webigail. It's... I love it." He wound it around his collared neck, and attempted to tie it on, once, twice. In their practiced dance, Webby reached forward and tied it on for him, with neither of them paying much attention to the fact.

He went to look at himself in the reflection in the window, and nodded, "It's nice. I like it."

"I'm glad."

He looked around the room, placing his hands on his hips as he surveyed his office, which, for once, he felt like he had earned the right to call 'his.' "What time does work start in the morning?"

"Six o'clock, sharp."

"Right. Another day, another million dollars." He began to hobble out of the office, "Come, Ms. Vanderquack. Let's go..."

"Wait... Dewey."

"Yes?"

"There's... one more surprise I wanted to show you."

He turned his head towards her. "Yes?"

She took his hand, gently, and led him towards the money bin's vault. She laid his hand on the locking mechanism, and allowed him to input the code. The bolts came undone with a loud, hollow noise, and the vault door swung open.

Inside there seemed to be nothing, as usual, the money of years redistributed among the three brothers. However, as Dewey got closer.

"Webby! You didn't!"

"It's all yours, Dewey!" she cried pointing out the shallow pool of money that had formed at the bottom of the bin, "Every single cent!"

With her help, and wincing from his lame leg, he began to climb down the long ladder. It took the two of them a long time to reach the bottom, where the load, predominantly made of coin with a few small greenbacks around to fluff it out, laid like a silver sea.

"But... but..."

"It's all of the profit to date from the Gold mine," she said, before pointing out a small, charred strongbox, "Plus what you saved from the B&B."

He hobbled over to the strongbox and opened it. The absurdly high amount of Brazilian money, amounting to barely any American, laid in the box. Dewey smiled as he mentally counted it. His.

A wild thought came over him, "How deep it is?"

"About five feet. We made sure to use a lot of small change at this point, to fill it out, you know?"

"Perfect. Perfect!" He stood, taking her by the hand, "Do you still remember how?"

"Remember how to..." her eyes blinked and she looked at the sea of cash that felt so hard under her feet, "You don't mean. With your leg?"

"Uncle Scrooge did it well into his 90s, I think I can do it with a bum leg. Come on." He veritably dragged her to the end of the wall, his eyes shining brightly, "And I was thinking when we get home, I'm thirsty for some of that good nutmeg tea you make. Have I ever told you I like your tea?"

"No, Dewey."

"Well, I do. I was just never thirsty for it before. I'm parched now. Hungry too. Where can we get some cheap Chinese or something?"

"There's the take-out place on the corner."

"Perfect. I could just go for some chop suey and rice, with all the free soy sauce and fortune cookies I can pocket. Ready?"

"It's been years, but... I think so."

"Let's jump... together then..."

"Y-yes. I... I'd like that, Dewey."

Silently, Dewey counted, one, two, three, before he dove, headfirst towards the money, followed closely by Webby. Defying all physics, the two bodies sliced through the coins like water, old instincts coming back to them like the art of the bicycle, allowing them to dive through the coins like porpoises, burrowing through the greenbacks like two gophers, before popping to the surface, tossing the fruits of Dewey's labor up and letting it hit them on the head.


End file.
